


firepower

by lucy_blue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Child Abuse, Gen, Harry Potter Swears, Little Hangleton Graveyard, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Rapid Road Trip Away From Enemies With Rag Tag Group of Companions, Road Trips, Sassy Harry Potter, Squib Harry Potter, Survival, Survival Horror, Voldemort's Rebirth, Worldbuilding, Write Badass Squibs 2k19, tm - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-10-12 14:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 26,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17469269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_blue/pseuds/lucy_blue
Summary: Harry James Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Chosen One, etc. is a squib with no knowledge of the magical world. By general consensus, he is most useful as potions ingredients.General consensus being unanimous agreement by everyone except one Harry James Potter. But who cares abouthisopinion anyway?(aka: Harry is having a good day, until the part where he gets teleported into a creepy graveyard with some even creepier... cult members?)





	1. a long and winding fuse

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not exactly sure what the rating for this should be. I'm leaving it at teen and up, but if you think I should change it, please let me know.

_“...he will have power the dark lord knows not…”_

**squib**  
_(noun)_  
1\. a small firework that burns with a hissing sound before exploding  
2\. _informal_ a small, slight or weak person, especially a child

_(verb)_  
1\. _american football_ kick the ball a comparatively short distance in a kickoff  
2\. _archaic_ utter, write or publish a satirical or sarcastic remark

 

 

**1\. a long and winding fuse**

The stranger arrives to Privet Drive a week before Harry’s birthday. 

He stands in front of the cookie cutter houses with their meticulously trimmed hedges and curtains in unassuming shades of off white and smiles like he doesn’t know that every centimeter of this place violently rejects every _centimeter_ of him.

Privet Drive is a perfectly ordinary place, after all, and this is a very _strange_ stranger. 

The stranger picks a particular house out of the others and strolls towards it. His shoes have a slight heel which clicks with every step, and the embroidered hem of his robes swings tauntingly with his stride. 

One sagely wrinkled hand rises and gives the door three sharp knocks.

The door swings open and a small boy of nearly eleven stares up at him, green eyes big behind his round glasses. 

Perhaps the earlier statement is in need of revision. 

Privet Drive is an _almost_ perfectly ordinary place. There is a slight issue in the form of Harry Potter, who seems to attract strangeness to him. 

Once, a very short man in offensively bright clothing about three decades out of fashion bowed to him in a shop. Another time, this not-quite-normal boy spoke to a snake at the zoo- and the snake _spoke back_. And, unlike the other residents of the house, who dream in beige, he sometimes has awful nightmares of green light and flying motorcycles and high cackling of the sort that would come from no _normal_ person’s mouth. 

“Hello again, Mr. Potter,” the stranger says smilingly to Harry Potter. “May I speak to your aunt?”

Harry stares at the stranger for a moment, then quickly scurries off to fetch his aunt. He’s got a good sense by now for what sorts of strangeness will get him in trouble, and this one _stinks_ of it. 

“Petunia,” the stranger acknowledges her with a gracious nod. “Your agapanthus is looking well.” 

Aunt Petunia’s lips scrunch up violently. “What do you want?” she asks tersely. 

“How kind of you to ask!” The stranger smiles genially, then, consideringly, “I could always do with another pair of socks. You can never have to many socks, you know. And I would love a lemon drop, as I seem to be developing a bit of a sore throat.” 

“What are you doing here?” she grinds out. 

“I am here to speak to you about your young nephew’s future,” the stranger says. 

“T- Harry has some homework he needs to be doing now,” Aunt Petunia says tightly. “I would hate to distract him- we should speak somewhere more privately.” 

They head to somewhere more private, which still isn’t private enough for sneaky boys who aren’t used to being paid attention to in their own home, let alone by very _strange_ strangers who know his name and imply they’ve met before. 

The door is of a thick, sturdy sort, so Harry can only hear the vague outline of his aunt’s low hissing whisper, and not the words in it. 

“In a sense,” the stranger replies at a normal volume. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that, I’m afraid.” 

Harry’s aunt whisper-hisses something else, and the stranger replies, “No- or, well- tests would have to be done to be sure. But Harry still has a place within our world, let me assure you that. I’m sure that we can figure something out, that he will still be able to join the others of his age at Hogwarts.” 

Harry jolts back in shock. _Our_ world? What’s that supposed to mean? The man acts in a way foreign to Privet Drive, yes, but he's still very British- and _Hogwarts_? What kind of a name is that? 

The stranger is saying something else, but Harry is so distracted that he doesn’t pay much attention.

“No, no, that doesn’t make sense at all, does it?” Aunt Petunia crows triumphantly. “If the boy’s not- your type- than why should he go to one of your schools?”

“Even if he is not 'one of us', he has a place in our world, a place which he will one day have to fill, whether you wish it or not," the stranger says. And then, very gently, "You know, Petunia, all correspondence within the Hogwarts admission office is personally handled, including those sent by muggle means."

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Only that just because you did not have opportunities, doesn't mean young Harry must suffer the same fate. He can be different."

“And why _should he?_ ” Aunt Petunia hisses out almost involuntarily. “Why should he get to-?”

There is a silence, and then, reproachfully, “I think you know the answer to that, Petunia.” 

“Well if it’s- as you told me in that first letter- then it doesn’t matter whether or not he gets any schooling! And you just said he wasn’t one of- your type. So I don’t see why he should go to- one of your schools.” 

“It’s possible that Harry is, as you put it, 'one of us'. The events of Hallow’s Eve, 1981, may have had unforeseen circumstances… it’s entirely possible that-”

“Fine, fine,” Aunt Petunia interrupts him hurriedly. “I’ll let you take him for those tests you wanted- but if he _isn’t_ one of your type, _he isn’t going_!” 

“We’ll see,” the stranger hums. “What’s your schedule like?” 

“I’m afraid,” Aunt Petunia says very primly, “That we’re quite busy this week. We have about thirty minutes free on next Wednesday, but I’m not sure if that’s enough time.” 

“No, I’m afraid it’s not, and I have something pressing that day anyhow,” the stranger agrees. “How’s the Tuesday after next for you?” 

“Acceptable,” Aunt Petunia says. “I’ll see you then.” 

The sturdy door opens and the stranger sweeps out before Harry can scramble away from the door. He shoots Harry a wink, and then is gone, leaving a hint of the mint-on-the-tongue misty-breath static-electricity-on-your-socks smell behind. 

When Uncle Vernon comes home, Aunt Petunia pulls him aside and explains in terse whispers. By the time Dudley gets back from Pier’s, Uncle Vernon is jovially talking about how it’s so good that they’re finally upsizing after all of those years idly talking about it. Soon Aunt Petunia is speculating on what to plant in her new, larger garden, (she's thinking no agapanthus this time around) and Dudley is talking about having a fridge in his room. Harry sets the table and tries to forget about the stranger, because after all he smelt like trouble and Harry already attracts enough as it is. 

By Tuesday after next, Number Four Privet Drive is completely empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about the Hogwarts admission office is inspired by Professor McGonagall and Aunt Petunia's interaction in yer a wizard, dudley, by dirgewithoutmusic. If you haven't read that already, you definitely should, it's fantastic.


	2. pop and no kick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's day goes from good to horrifically, _unbelievably_ bad so fast he gets whiplash.

**2\. pop and no kick**

It’s payday and the sun is shining and it’s the last day of school. Harry’s singing along to the song on the speakers under his breath as he shelves the canned peaches; life is about as good as it gets, he thinks, a rare bit of warm contentment pooling in his chest. 

Soon the clock has ticked down and his shift is over, and Mrs. Gallagher is handing him his pay. 

“Now remember, a third of that is yours, and don’t let your aunt get her claws into it,” Mrs. Gallagher tells him, patting his arm with one trembling, wizened hand. Aunt Petunia had tried to get Mrs. Gallagher to set things up so Harry’s pay would go straight to her, but Mrs. Gallagher told her that as the one working, Harry deserved more than deserved a cut of the money, and Aunt Petunia’s claims that he would spend it all irresponsibly hadn’t budged her. 

“The boy deserves some pocket change,” she said stoutly. No one else would consider hiring someone so young and inexperienced, so Aunt Petunia had to relent and agree. 

Of course, Mrs. Gallagher had her way, Aunt Petunia wouldn’t be getting a cent, but Mrs. Gallagher really does need the help, and she’s barely keeping her shop afloat as it is. 

Harry hangs up his apron and shrugs on his backpack, then heads into the aisles to pick up the groceries Aunt Petunia told him to buy. 

Harry knows every inch of the little store, and so he easily slides down this aisle, grabs the things he needs, hurries around the other way, grabs the next thing, again and again until he’s balancing everything in his arms, shifting quickly so the can of hairspray on the top of the stack doesn’t go flying. 

Mr. Pritchard has told him- and keeps on telling him, over and over again with that little furrow between his brow- that he should do track, or basketball or for god's sakes, throw me a bone here, _something_ , can’t you fit it onto your schedule _somehow_? 

Rutherford’s sports teams are frankly pathetic and Harry never has the heart to quite explain to Mr. Pritchard that he will never, ever be able to join a team. Instead he makes bullshit excuses about his schedule. He’s pretty sure Mr. Pritchard thinks Harry’s in a gang or on drugs or something, but that’s not it, either. The Dursleys would rather choke and die than let him do any sort of sport. Likely because they’re afraid he’d do better than Dudley at it, or maybe more likely because they’re a hereditary allergy to the thought of Harry having fun. 

But anyway. 

He pays with everything except for the roast beef with Aunt Petunia’s money. Mrs. Gallagher gives him a free soft drink, ice cold and slick with condensation, as she checks him out. 

“Happy summer break, Henry,” Mrs. Gallagher calls out to him, and he allows her a rare grin as he pushes open the softly jingling door and heads out into the sunlit afternoon air. 

He’s about halfway done with his drink when he reaches his old basketball court. 

Obviously Harry doesn’t own it, not really, but he still thinks of it as _his_ , his special place, because the trees around it mostly hide it from sight, so it feels a little bit like a little piece of Narnia, and most of the neighborhood doesn’t seem to know it exists. 

Harry’s certainly the only person who plays on it; the only signs of other people are the occasional empty beer bottles and cigarette stubs. 

Harry puts his backpack down and goes and digs his battered, slightly flat basketball out of its hiding place. He takes another sip of his soft drink and then closes it back up and tucks it in his backpack to save for later. At the same time, he pulls the roast beef out, pulling open the packages and lying it all down on the pavement. 

Harry turns away and starts dribbling the ball, heads in for a layup. He’s getting the rebound when he sees that Snuffles has already arrived, and the roast beef is mostly gone. Snuffles licks his lips and trots toward Harry, and Harry is laughing and scratching behind Snuffles’ ears and closing his eyes so that Snuffles doesn’t lick his eyeballs. Harry swears, every time Snuffles sees him he acts like Harry’s been gone a month. 

About eight months ago, Harry noticed a skeletal dog with tangled black fur sleeping under one of the shrubs and started bringing him food. Harry calls him Snuffles because when he naps, he makes snuffling noises in his sleep like doggy snores. 

Harry practices shooting and Snuffles lays out on the warm asphalt with his head on his paws, watching him lazily. Occasionally Harry will take a short break and scratch behind his ears again. 

On one of his breaks Harry notices a metallic gleam on the asphalt nearby, and walks over. He sees that there’s a dented gunmetal gray box thing on the ground; he picks it up and finds with a bit of fiddle that it’s a lighter, a bit scuffed up but still in fine working condition. Harry doesn’t smoke, and he wouldn’t be able to afford cigarettes even if he did, but he likes the way it fits in his hand, and maybe he can sell it or something, so he shoves it into his backpack, and returns to basketball. 

Later, it starts to get late, and there’s an odd feeling in the air, sort of like static electricity. It grows and grows and Harry can feel his heart beating in his chest. Harry pulls on his backpack, holds his ball, and tries to hear past the pounding of the blood in his ears. Snuffles starts to growl, and Harry tangles his hand in Snuffles’ fur, tries to calm him down. 

Suddenly there’s a hand tight around his arm, and everything is black, and he feels like he is stuck in a hole far too small for him, pressure like an anvil all around him, and he can feel at the same time, everything twisting and turning around him, warping and pushing; and then Harry is bent over, vomiting his guts out. 

Harry manages to look up, bleary eyed, and catch a glimpse of a graveyard, old and overgrown with hanging ivy. He can hear behind him Snuffles growling- and then a voice screeching strange words, and the growls stop, and there is a thud. 

Dread shoots through him, and he drops the basketball, trying instinctively to crawl away- but there’s again the firm grip on his hand, and he’s being dragged, kicking and struggling, and shoved roughly against a gravestone, and now a short, masked figure in long vampire type robes is tying him up with ropes that have appeared out of nowhere, and all Harry can do is dizzily think, _What the fuck?_

Harry swallows dryly and does himself one better and actually manages to say something- “What the _fuck_ ,” he croaks, and then half chokes on the cloth being shoved in his mouth for his trouble. 

Harry’s basketball has rolled away, and is lying there, plastic-y and orange and very _normal_ , and completely out of place on this gothic horror movie set of a graveyard. A little ways away from that is Snuffles, unnaturally stiff and unmoving. Harry hopes he’s still alive. 

The short vampire man comes back over, carrying a little bundle of black cloth- _Oh shit,_ part of Harry wonders hysterically, _Is he sacrificing a baby?_

The short vampire puts the bundle on the ground and then starts shoving a fucking gigantic gray bowl thing over, full all up with water, and then there’s all at once a whole load of flames beneath it- _Oh fucking shit,_ Harry screeches internally, _He’s going to boil the baby! And then me!_

The short vampire picks up the baby and the cloth falls away and Harry screams into his gag, because _this isn’t a horror film set, this a whole entire horror film!_ and _Harry is one hundred percent a-okay with that fucking possessed demon baby little thing BOILING UP AND DYING thank you very much!_

The vampire drops the baby into the bowl and Harry thinks to himself, _Yes, burn and die, you little fucker, drown and burn and DIE-_

The vampire man is speaking again, but Harry can’t hardly hear it past the splitting headache and the pressure hanging in the air, like a rapidly incoming storm- the ground beneath Harry cracks open, and Harry frantically tries to backpedal, struggling wildly against the ropes, as some sort of pale dust rises out of the ground and floats over the bowl. 

The vampire man says something else, and the pressure is building even more now, and then he _cuts off his own fucking hand_ \- Harry screams into his gag again, and chokes at the slick splash as it falls into the now blood red, redder than blood, redder than red, water. 

The vampire man is approaching, and there’s some slack in the ropes now, but still not enough to quite get free, if he just wiggles, _he likes his hands very much thank you!_ -

The vampire man grabs his arm roughly and sets his long silver knife and drags it down his arm, hard, and Harry can feel his warm blood dripping, and he’s sobbing into his gag with the fear of it. 

The vampire man gathers his blood in a vial and turns around, slowly staggering back towards the metal bowl. Harry can feel the ropes give slightly. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen when vampire man puts his blood in the red red red water, but he can feel the storm-pressure growing and growing, and he doesn’t want to be here when it makes landfall, no thank you. 

He feels like a live wire, taut and tense and every bit of him painfully awake. He takes a few deep breaths, and then, as smoothly and silently as he can, slides out of under the ropes, and reaches out, and just manages to get his hand around the very end of Snuffles’ tail, and _pulls_ , and hugs Snuffles into his arms, and starts moving out away from the vampire man and the big bowl, trying to stick to the cover the gravestones provide, trying all the while to just think about the next thing, not about how fucking terrifying this all is. 

He’s maybe ten feet away when he hears a high, cold voice command, “Robe me,” and he starts trying to speed up. 

“Where is the Potter boy?” the voice is even icier with rage. Harry fucking _sprints_ , because he doesn’t want to star in a horror movie, _thankyouverymuch_.

There’s more weird words, this time from the high, cold voice, and a green light like the one in Harry’s nightmares streaks right past him, he can feel the wind of it in his hair. 

There are more weird words, and now Harry hits his second wind, sprinting even faster, zig zagging, his backpack thumping against him as he runs. Purple light slams into a gravestone and it shatters into a spray of rubble but he charges right on through, and he’s out of the graveyard now, in some sort of village, and there’s a pub, looking perfectly normal, but Harry doesn’t know if he can trust that, so instead he grabs the bicycle on the ground in front of the pub and puts Snuffles, who’s still all stiff, in the wire basket and starts peddling like his life depends on it, because it probably does.


	3. self propelled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the upside, Harry is no longer tied up. On the down side, he has no idea what the ever loving fuck is going on.

**3\. self propelled**

At first Harry’s legs are churning, and they’re bumping erratically along. He’s just starting to slow when he sees through the thick tangle of trees, some sort of- shack, which is awful filthy, and smells like storm and rot and what’s beneath overturned stones, and _there’s a snake skin nailed on the door_ , and Harry picks up the pace again, dread’s icy fingers dancing up his spine. 

The shack has disappeared behind him when he hears a sort of moaning from the wire basket, and he turns and sees that Snuffles is _alive_ , and awake, and not looking happy about being jostled about. Harry finally allows himself to slow, and as he does, his thoughts catch up with him. 

There’s some fucking- creep- and he seems to be doing some sort of- sacrifice thing? And how the fuck did Harry get _here_ , from his basketball court? 

Harry’s still feeling kind of like a live wire and his breaths starting to feel kind of fast, as he thinks, _Where the fuck am I?_ and _What does the man want? Is he going to come after me? How did I get here?_

Harry tries to concentrate on taking deep breaths, staying calm. 

The common sense answer is that this is all just a dream, but although it’s certainly odd enough to be one, Harry can feel the bloody scrape on his face from where he was hit with exploded gravestone, and the aching cut on his arm, and the cool evening air on his face. 

But if this is real- how the _fuck_ did Harry- teleport?- to some weird graveyard? 

Harry wonders over that one for a moment, before admitting the truth. 

He isn’t as surprised as he should be- as a normal person should be. He thinks he might have an idea what’s going on here. 

As much as he’s tried, he never could forget the stranger. The stranger smelled like trouble too. The stranger dressed in long robe things too. 

The stranger who said Harry wasn’t one of “his kind” but had a place in their world, that he would one day have to fill, _whether he wishes it or not_. Harry shudders. 

Of course, there was something about a school- Hogwarts, Harry remembers- too. Maybe this is… some sort of weird entrance exam? But no, that’s too far fetched for even the trouble-smelling people. 

As the adrenaline continues to slowly drain out of Harry, he starts to feel how sore and tired and in pain and hungry and cold he is. His shoulders and legs are aching, he’s scraped and bruised and his cut is still aching, and he’s hungry. And his body is starting to remember all that he’s done today- he’s went to school, and to work, and then played basketball, and then- _this_. 

But Harry doesn’t know somewhere safe to rest, and he has no idea if anyone is following him, trying to capture him or use the rest of him in creepy rituals, too. 

“You know any good place to stay?” Harry asks Snuffles rhetorically. 

Snuffles leaps from the wire basket and starts sniffing the air, his ears twitching. Harry slows to a stop, and watches as Snuffles slowly starts walking. 

“You _do_.” Harry feels a bit of tension leave his shoulders, and he gives Snuffles’ ears a friendly ruffle. “Thanks, Snuffs.” 

Harry slides off the walk, and carefully walks it through the woods, after Snuffles. The woods are rather dense and winding, and Harry often has to lift the bike to get it over roots and rocks and things, but Harry knows he’s a lot faster on a bike than he is on foot, so he keeps a firm grip on it. 

There’s a kind of a rushing sound, Harry notes; he hadn’t properly noticed it earlier. Snuffles starts to move faster, and they walk right up to a little brook, clear and cold. Snuffles immediately starts drinking from it, but Harry hesitates. 

He has no idea if the water’s clean. There could be some dead animal, ten feet upstream, or- but Snuffles is drinking it, and he must be able to smell whether or not it’s clean. And Harry will die a lot quicker from dehydration than infection- although, some part of him insidiously whispers, he’s more likely to die from vampire man than either of those. 

Harry wishes he had thought to have stolen some water along with the bike, and he even very briefly considers going back. After all, that way, he could get food, water, maybe even figure out where he is, get a ride back- but no, they’re probably in on it too. The lights would have been pretty hard to miss- so it’s probably some sort of cult, and the entire village is in it. 

It’s at that moment that Harry remembers that he _does_ actually have something to drink. He pulls out his soft drink and glugs it, enjoying the way the cool liquid feels on his throat. 

The drink is gone all too quickly, and Harry eyes the cold, clear brook water again longingly. He’ll think about that later, Harry decides. He’s just recalled all the groceries in his bag. He’s got a lot bigger problems than Aunt Petunia being mad he ate her food, after all. 

Harry takes stock of his supplies. He’s got a rasher of raw bacon, hairspray, a loaf of bread, a tube of mint toothpaste, a dozen eggs, and five or six cans. 

The only thing that could theoretically open the can is Harry’s rather blunt set of scissors. Harry obviously can’t eat the bacon or the eggs raw, and although he might be able to make a bonfire of some sort using his lighter and the dead branches all around him, the woods are dense enough it might be a fire hazard, and it also seems like the sort of thing that would attract unwanted attention. 

Snuffles can obviously eat the bacon, though, and he thinks dogs can eat eggs, too- he recalls Aunt Marge talking about giving her dogs eggs to make them have shiny coats. 

Harry cuts open the package of bacon and gives Snuffles two slices of bacon. Nine of the eggs have cracked or broken, and Harry lets Snuffles eat those, too. 

Harry allows himself three slices of bread. The bread is dry and he finds himself eyeing the water longingly once more. He’ll die from dehydration before infection, he reasons again, and fills his soft drink bottle up with water before he can think about it too much. 

The water tastes good. Harry’s not sure if he would be able to taste if it was dangerous or not, but he tries to take the taste as a good sign. 

Harry can feel himself start to droop, and so he hides the bike has best he can, and then he curls up on the ground, his head on Snuffles’ warm chest.


	4. detonator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry isn't out of the woods yet.

**4\. detonator**

The storm clouds are split by vivid green lightning. There’s high cackling and Harry knows the screaming is about to start- but the cool, wet touch of a dog’s nose wakes him before it can. 

Harry’s dream is quickly swept aside. There’s storm-pressure in the air, and his mouth is filled with the taste of squirming things no longer hidden beneath stones. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest, and he grasps about instinctively for a weapon, any weapon. 

His eyes fall on his backpack. 

He has scissors, but they’re too dull to do real damage. The cans are heavy enough if he gave someone a good whack with them it might be able to knock them out. Although of course with those- lights- things, what he really needs is a long distance weapon- 

What he really needs is for this to not be happening, but whatever-

The taste in his mouth is growing and Harry hurries, pulling out the cans. He pulls out the can of hair spray by accident, and almost puts it away, but then his mind catches- 

-a couple of weeks ago, on the telly before Harry left for school, a news report about some delinquent in London making a flamethrower out of hair spray-

Well. You know what the Dursleys say about that Potter boy. 

Harry pulls out the dented lighter. He can hear a sort of distant rustling, like someone moving through the forest. He pulls on his backpack and yanks off the top of the can of hairspray. He stands, holds out the hairspray and lighter out before him with shaking hands. Next to him, Snuffles is growling, low in his throat.

Suddenly, a figure in dark robes appears. Dread stabs through Harry, his muscles twitch, and all at once, flames burst forth. Snuffles tackles the figure, then goes for one of the hands, yanking on something that it’s holding. 

Harry drops the hairspray and lighter, and grabs one of the cans, then runs over and whacks it against the figure’s head until the legs aren’t kicking anymore. 

There’s a moment where Harry just pants, then he slowly drops the can. 

The figure looks different now. Something closer to a human, and less like a horror movie monster. Unmoving, he seems shorter. The odd bone colored mask doesn’t have a mark on it, but the robes are badly singed.

Beside Harry, Snuffles is holding some sort of long bit of wood in his mouth.

“What the fuck is that?” Harry says to himself, drop dead tired. “Or- whatever.” He stares blankly at it, eyes a bit glassy. “I’ve had enough weird shit for a while, thanks.” 

The bone mask seems to be watching him. Harry looks back at it for a minute, then impulsively pulls it off the face.

He’s just an ordinary enough looking guy. Harry doesn’t know how he feels. 

Harry allows himself another few breaths, then forces himself to get moving. More could be coming at any time, and he doesn’t want to have to fight another one. 

Except- moving _where?_ Is the road still safe? Better to die by cult, or get lost in the woods? 

Well. First things first. 

Harry caps the hairspray, puts the mask and cans away. 

“What do you think?” Harry asks Snuffles. “Where do we go now?” 

Harry has no idea where the nearest town is. Returning to the road makes him more vulnerable, but-

Snuffles is already moving deeper into the forest. Harry shrugs to himself and follows.


	5. self propelled ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tries to figure out what the hell is going on.

**5\. self propelled ii**

Harry trudges exhaustedly through the darkness. He feels light, like a bit of flotsam turned weightless and worn by ages being battered by the waves. It’s all he can do to keep his eyes on Snuffles, and put one foot in front of the other. 

Suddenly his shoe is caught under a root, and he’s slamming forward, just managing to pillow his head with his arms in the nick of time. 

Snuffles whines with worry and sniffs at his head. 

“I’m fine,” Harry mumbles to Snuffles. 

He knows he _should_ get up and keep moving, but he just- he really doesn’t want to. 

Snuffles grabs onto his shirt with his teeth and tugs, but Harry just kind of groans. 

“I’m going to bed,” Harry tells Snuffles sleepily, and promptly turns his head and falls asleep. 

Aunt Petunia lights the candles carefully, whispering softly to herself as she does so. 

The candles on Dudley’s birthday cake start melting, and Harry can feel his heart pounding harder and harder.

Harry reaches out and tries to keep the entire cake from being ruined. His fingers burn with something like static and coppery-scented blood flows from his fingertips, staining the cake. 

There are odd words being spoken in the background. Probably the distant sound of Aunt Petunia scolding him. 

Static is dancing across Harry’s fingers, nose, and ears. Something about static… trouble? Harry stirs, starts to open his eyes, but there’s a word spoken as if in command, and he’s asleep again. 

Harry is woken up by the grumbling of his stomach. 

His mouth is bone dry and tastes of old blood. His entire body is sticky with drying sweat and mud. He’s lying on something rougher and harder than usual, which is saying something. What feels like a rock is digging into his shoulder. 

Harry cracks open his crusty eyes and winces at the influx of afternoon light. Aunt Petunia is going to be _so_ pissed he slept in. 

He slowly opens his eyes, and manages to get a look around. 

Afternoon light is streaming through the woods. Snuffles is dozing nearby, one of his ears twitching as a fly gets too close. 

Hands trembling, Harry quickly checks his backpack. 

The mask is right there. Like a skull, all yellowing bone and hard angles. Intricate vines and loops cover it, carved so delicately into the material so that you can only see them if you look very closely. The mouth is a grate, covered with delicate strips of metal. The very sight sends shivers of dread up Harry’s spine. The smell still clinging to it is awful. 

If all that was a hallucination, it’s one that’s still going on now. 

Harry pushes it to the very bottom of his backpack. He tries not to think about it too much. Instead he wakes up Snuffles, and they eat; two slices of bread for Hary, and bacon and eggs for Snuffles. 

Harry’s legs are sore from all the exercise he got yesterday, but the thought of that mask still in his backpack makes for some truly excellent motivation, and he manages to get back to walking pretty quickly. 

Walking leaves Harry way too much time to think. 

The _hand_ , Harry thinks with horror, and that slick, sick noise at it slipped under the surface of the red red red water, rings again and again in his head. 

He tries to focus on walking, tries to note things about his surroundings, but that damned hand, the _noise_ of it. 

The afternoon sun is slowly turning into that more golden evening shade. Harry tries to think about the colors of the sunlight but his thoughts betray him. 

The wretched baby fills Harry’s mind. What is it? Harry doesn’t really want to know, but still his traitorous mind asks, _What is it?_ and then has the audacity to speculate on it further, dashing ahead to all the vague yet awful possibilities. 

Maybe it’s some sort of antichrist raised from the dead- Harry’s never been religious but then again he never thought he would be a part of a real life horror movie, so. Or maybe it’s some sort of- god, Harry doesn’t even know. He wants that disgusting, disturbing thing out of his mind, but thoughts of his ordeal won’t seem to leave him alone. 

Harry tries to at least turn his thoughts away from the very worst of it, and towards a more familiar horror.

The green light, the high, cold voice. 

The green light and high, cold laugh from Harry’s nightmares. 

Were Harry’s parents killed by the- cult? Kidnapped before him? Do they need to sacrifice the entire Potter family for whatever hellish ritual it is they’re doing? 

How does the stranger fit into all of this? Is he also a part of the cult, trying to tempt Aunt Petunia into giving Harry over with his lies about schools? 

Except no, that doesn’t make sense, if that was it, the Dursleys would just hand Harry over and _then_ run, instead of taking Harry with them. 

What’s the school for? Why do they dress so strangely? 

Harry thinks he has a suspicion, but it’s too absurd- there’s no way- then again, Harry had thought there was no way to teleport from one place to another- or to carry on a conversation with a snake… 

Probably he had just been imagining it all- or something. There has to be a logical explanation. Magic isn’t real. 

Although- if it isn’t, why do the Dursleys squash every mention of it? Aunt Petunia had clearly known something based off of how she had reacted to the stranger…

Harry thinks of the stick the masked one had carried, of the odd words they’d said, of the odd lights, of the long robes they wore. 

So magic existed, it seems. But Harry isn’t magical- or, he probably isn’t “one of them” according to the stranger. 

Honestly, it seems par for the course that yeah, sure, magic exists- but nope, Harry isn’t magical. Instead, all the magical people want to chop him up and use him as ingredients in their weird brews and horror movie esque rituals. Harry coughs out a bitter sort-of laugh. That was his luck, alright. 

Even has Harry thinks these thoughts, part of him is half-daring to hope that maybe he _is_ magical after all- after all, normal kids can’t understand snakes, and Harry doesn’t think normal people can smell trouble. 

It’s not shooting light out of a stick of wood kind of magic, but maybe that’s what the school is for. 

Maybe, Harry even considers, someone from the school will be able to find him, and rescue him. Fight off the cultish ones, and kill the awful baby, and then whisk him off to learn magic. 

But Harry quickly squishes the foolish thoughts. If they knew how to find him, wouldn’t the stranger have followed the Dursleys to their new house and kept the appointment? It was much more of an easily tracked move than this, that’s for sure. They seem to have forgotten about him, considering that it’s been very nearly four years since the stranger first visited, and there hasn’t been a word since then. 

It’s properly dark now, complete with stars that light up the sky in a way that they never done in the suburbs. Harry’s stomach has started grumbling again, but he’s getting kind of worried about running out of food what with the fact that he’s just wandering around in the woods instead of heading towards some sort of civilization. 

“If you smell anything like people, we should probably head to that,” Harry tells Snuffles. “I’ve got some money, but it’s useless unless I have somewhere to buy food from.” 

He knows it’s weird to act like Snuffles can understand him, but it’s weird to act like _snakes_ understand him, and, well. Plus, Harry knows how intelligently Snuffles has acted in the past. 

Snuffles gives his hand a lick, and in return, Harry gives him a friendly scratch behind the ears. 

After that Harry’s back to being too tired and hungry for very much worrying, and his thoughts are mostly on just not tripping over any roots. Harry lays down to get some sleep as the sun starts to rise.


	6. damp squib

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry proceeds towards civilization. 
> 
> Content warning: underage smoking by a minor character

**6\. damp squib**

“Rumor has it Pritchard wants you on his basketball team,” Simon says as Harry enters the bathroom. 

Harry shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah. Can’t, though.” 

“I can’t believe I associate with a _jock_ ,” Simon says, holding out his cigarette in a wordless offer. 

Harry shakes his head. “I’ve enough of a cough already.” Aunt Petunia had him weeding in the rain over the weekend, and it shows in the painful rattle in his throat. 

Simon shrugs. “Your loss.” He scoots up to sit on the sink, and sticks the cigarette back in his mouth. 

Harry sits on the other sink and pulls out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he packed himself. 

“I found a lighter,” he tells Simon conversationally.

“Oh?” Simon’s eyes light up. He’s been using up his cash on matches for the past month or so, ever since his parents found the hiding place for his old lighter. His parents have been keeping a tight watch on him, so he has to buy his matches from Wheeler along with his cigarettes, and Wheeler’s goods have one hell of a markup. 

Harry pulls out the dented, silvery lighter and tosses it to Simon, lets him get a feel for it. 

“I’m thinking four pounds,” Harry tells Simon. 

Simon snorts. “That’s way too much.” He turns away and starts inspecting his mohawk in the mirror. 

“Take it or leave it,” Harry tells Simon, holding his hand out for the lighter. 

Simon grumbles. “At least let me try it out first.” He flicks the lighter, and the hair spray and flame combine in a spray of liquid fire, consuming the bathroom- the _world_ \- in a hungry, hissing heat. 

Harry jolts awake. Rain is drizzling down around him in soft, hissy whispers. Harry can’t tell for sure, but he thinks it’s evening. 

Shit. Where’s Snuffles? 

“SNUFFLES!” Harry hollers at the top of this lungs. Did they find them? Is he okay? “SNUFFLES! SNUFFLES!” 

There’s a noise from the underbrush and Snuffles comes barrelling over, licking his face over and over again. Harry allows himself a smile of relief. 

“Sorry,” Harry tells Snuffles sheepishly. “I thought they, uh, got you.” He gives an embarrassed laugh. “Stupid, I know.” 

Snuffles nuzzles Harry’s hand and Harry feels a bit better about the whole thing. Even stuck outside in the middle of nowhere, with no signs of the rain letting up, things are better with Snuffles there. 

They have some breakfast. Snuffles is impatient throughout the entire thing, his tail wagging rapidly in excitement as he scarfs down his food. He starts trotting quickly through the woods as soon as Harry’s finished his food. 

“Found civilization, have you?” Harry asks hopefully, and they’re off. 

The rain doesn’t seem to be letting up. Snuffles seems pretty confident, but occasionally he stops and spends a while sniffing at the ground, trying to pick up some sort of scent. The knowledge that Harry has a solid destination out there somewhere helps, but it’s still pretty miserable, and Harry searches for something to distract himself with. 

Harry’s mind returns to that dream he had. What with everything else going on, Harry hadn’t really thought much about what was going on back in Kent. 

As strange as the thought is, he thinks things are probably chugging along about as normal. Just because Harry’s entire world has been yanked upside down and inside out, doesn’t mean their world has even shifted. 

He doesn’t even think he’s been reported missing. 

He doubts Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon care enough about his disappearance to report it to the police or anything. Sure, they probably find it disappointing that their servant is gone, but not enough so that they would bother to report him missing.

Most of his classmates and teachers probably wouldn’t notice. He’s always kept a pretty low profile, as he knows that even without Dudley spurring things on, the weird kid with bad grades and raggedy clothing isn’t exactly at the top of the social hierarchy. Most of them don’t even know his name. 

Even Mrs. Gallagher gets his name wrong. She thinks his name is Henry Potts, which is admittedly closer than Mr. Pritchard, who thinks his last names’ Gardner. 

Simon at least gets “Harry” right. He’s not sure if Simon knows his last name, and even if he did, he’d probably just assume Harry finally ran away, and won’t say a word as one last parting favor. 

Which leads to the odd thought that Harry doesn’t _have_ to go back to the Dursleys’. He’s been idly day dreaming of running away for a while, and now he’s far away from the Dursleys, without any of the fuss he had assumed might arise from running away. He’s got his payday cash, and Snuffles. Of course Harry would have preferred if he could have brought his savings along with him, but still. 

Harry could find a nice out of the way bit of civilization and get another job, maybe helping out at a cafe or something. At first it’d be rough, but Harry’s a hard worker. He could scratch out a living, get himself a little flat somewhere. Buy Snuffles dog treats and dog toys. Cook food for himself, instead of his ungrateful, demanding relatives. Get proper clothes, and read books whenever he likes.

Also, never think about this whole thing ever again. Just live a (mostly) normal life, free from the Dursleys. 

Harry allows himself to daydream for a while, thinking about his imaginary flat, but the truth is, it’s a pipe dream and Harry knows it. Harry’s not even fifteen yet. He’s got no real credentials, and not much money. 

They’ve gotten out of the woods and now they’re on a winding, bumpy sort of path. It’s slippery with mud, and the potholes are filled up with muddy water. Stones stick out randomly here and there. Snuffles seems excited; he’s no longer pressing his nose to the ground like he’s got to search for the scent, but instead bounding along quickly, his tail wagging. 

Harry actually slows down a bit. He doesn’t want to slip and break his arm or something, and besides, he’s _tired_. He’s soaked through, his backpack keeps on thumping against his back, his legs are awful sore, and he thinks he must be getting dehydrated, because he’s got this headache that throbs in time with his heart beat. 

The rain starts to come down harder, and faster, until Harry can barely see. He goes slowly, trying to focus on not slipping, and keeping his eyes firmly on Snuffles, who seems to be managing rather better than him. 

There’s something beyond the veil of driving rain. Something, Harry thinks with a start, vaguely house-shaped. 

Harry sets toward it with new determination, already daydreaming of warm baths and something properly tasty to eat. As he approaches, he gets a better look at the place; it appears to be a rather ramshackle stone cottage, with a half-collapsed stone wall ringing part way around it. 

Harry almost trips over the roots of a stunted, grizzled old tree a little ways from the cottage itself. Meanwhile, Snuffles has dashed ahead, and is whining at the door, pawing like someone’s going to let him in.

When Harry tries the little wooden door, he finds that it won’t budge. Locked- or maybe just so swollen with age and damp that it can’t open. 

It might be best to stay here for the night anyway. The old tree is positioned near the door in a way that provides some cover, and the door is inset maybe four or five inches into the wall, enough to provide a modicum of relief from the relentless wind and rain. 

Harry would hate to have an angry homeowner chew him out or report him for squatting, but the windows aren’t lit up. And anyway, even if he does get chewed out, at least that’s some interaction with (sane) civilization. Harry makes his decision. He’ll stay. 

Harry puts his backpack behind his head to serve as a sort of pillow, and then slots himself as deeply as he can into the doorframe. Snuffles, sopping wet from the rain but still warm, comes and cuddles up against him. The rain feels like it’s stabbing right into him, but Harry eventually manages to get to sleep.

* * *

Every bump in the road jostles his decrepit bones. 

The thin, weather-worn man tries his best to avoid the potholes, but he knows at some point he’s going to get his front wheel stuck in one and go flying head over heels onto the muddy ground. 

At least, he thinks rather grimly to himself, there is somewhere for him to go home to. He’ll make himself some tea, heat himself up a bite to eat, leave his clothes to dry before the fire, maybe even read a little. Once he’s inside, the rain will become soothing background noise, instead of such a bloody nuisance. All he has to do is make it the last twenty yards or so, and then he’ll be good. 

He manages to get up to the cottage without too much pain and suffering. He lets out an exhausted sigh of relief as he stumbles off the bike and carefully leans it against the gnarled tree out front. He’s glad to be home. 

Except- it looks like someone else got here before him. There’s an achingly small figure curled up on the doorstep, shivering in his sleep. The man swallows rather painfully. The boy is far too small and young to be out here in the middle of nowhere. The man’s not in much of a position to help some runaway out, but he’ll try his best anyhow. It’s not within him to turn someone in need away. 

As the man approaches, he sees the boy more distinctly. The boy is curled up around some black, furry creature- a dog. Although, some of the wild black hair seems to be attached to the boy’s head as well. A painful chuckle rises in the man’s throat as he remembers an old friend he had with hair like that. 

The pair shifts in their sleep, and he's struck by realization. 

“Merlin’s most baggy Y-fronts,” Remus Lupin utters, staring down at Harry Potter and a transformed Sirius Black.


	7. through the clearing smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets the oddest guy...

**6b. damp squib ii**

This is all just… wrong. 

The traitor should be in Azkaban right now. Remus knows that he escaped- Dumbledore Owled him, knowing how near complete Remus’ isolation from the magical world is- but still, he belongs in Azkaban. He should be rotting among the Dementors. 

If not Azkaban, he should be hidden out on some miserable little rock, just barely scraping by. He should be suffering for his crimes, not cuddling up to the son of the friends he killed. 

Speaking of Harry- what in the name of Merlin is going on with him? 

James and Lily’s son should be lanky and tall, with messy hair and round glasses. He should sleep contentedly in a warm bed, with his loving family snoring in the rooms around him. He should grow up loved and supported, with stability and safety. That’s why Remus didn’t take Harry himself- because he knew that Harry deserved better. 

This? Filthy, oversized clothes, caked with moss and mud and stinking of dark magic? Skinny instead of lanky, short instead of tall? Tangled, matted hair crusted with sweat and grime? Glasses more tape than frame? Harry, curled up on a stoop in the middle of nowhere, drenched and freezing? 

This is just _wrong_.

**7\. through the clearing smoke**

There’s an all too familiar feeling, a bit like lightning struck nearby. It jolts Harry awake, and he’s quickly scrambling, already getting moving before he really knows what’s going on. 

There’s someone standing over Snuffles, who’s far too stiff. Harry yanks out the lighter and hairspray. 

“What did you do to my dog?” His voice is shaking as he flicks on the lighter with a trembling hand. 

The man turns. He’s holding a long stick, pointing it towards Harry. Harry flinches violently, and his finger twitches, sending out a short spurt of flame. 

“That’s a warning,” Harry tells the man, his voice trembling. “I’ll- I’ll burn you alive. Give me my dog back.” 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man says. His voice is surprisingly gentle.

“Uh huh,” Harry says sarcastically. “Now give my _fucking_ dog back.” He shakes the can of hairspray threateningly. 

“Harry,” The man says, “you must understand. I am not your enemy. This ‘dog’ of yours is. He’s not a real dog- he’s a wizard, the wizard who betrayed your parents to Lord Voldemort. He’s Sirius Black.” 

Lord whatever-the-fuck… is that the fucking ugly baby? Harry stares in confusion. And how’s he know about magic? 

“You one of the cult fuckers?” Harry asks, voice tight. 

The man stares in shock. “Surely Petunia told you?” 

“That magic is real? I figured that out for myself, thanks,” Harry snaps. “Give me my goddamn dog back, you cult fucker.” 

“Cult?” The man asks, brow wrinkling in confusion. 

“Worships a ugly baby?” Harry spits out sarcastically. “Has a thing for graveyards? One of them’s got kinda claws, except he’s missing the index finger?”

The man looks genuinely confused, and Harry can feel himself easing slightly despite himself. “How do you know my name?” Harry asks abruptly. 

“I'm a family friend,” The man says at once, quick enough it’s probably not a lie. “What do you mean by-?”

Harry’s hand loosens on his hair spray, and he finds himself nodding to his backpack, saying, “Mask’s in the biggest pocket.” 

The bone like stuff seems almost to glow in the darkness. The man stares, then at last, “You’re telling me you got kidnapped by Death Eaters.” 

Harry half shrugs. “You got something more definitive than ‘family friend’?” Harry’s too fucking tired for unknown variables. 

The man pulls up his sleeve to show Harry a bare left forearm. 

“Okay, and?” 

The man stares in confusion a half moment, then says, half to himself, “Guess you wouldn’t…” 

“Try again,” Harry tells him, still a little sharp. 

“How do you _want_ me to prove I’m not one of them?” The man sounds almost as tired as Harry is. 

Harry thinks for a moment. “Give me your stick.” 

The man hands his stick over with surprisingly little hesitation. It’s different than the stick Snuffles got from the one that came after Harry- lighter color wood, longer, got a knob on the end. 

“If you’re done examining my wand, I’d quite like to go on in out of the cold,” the man tells Harry rather dryly. 

Harry nods. He puts his stuff back into his backpack, and carefully picks up Snuffles, who is even more soaked through than before. 

The man waves his wand at the door, and it creaks open. The man steps inside, dries his feet on the ragged little rug, pulls off his blazer. He shucks off his shoes, and Harry awkwardly follows suit. 

The cottage is bigger on the inside than Harry had expected, but just as run down. The armchair is dusty, the piano waterstained, the stacks of vinyls teetering and unsteady. Bookshelves line the walls; scanning them, titles like _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe_ , _The Essential Defense Against the Dark Arts_ , and _The Useth & Misuse of Charm in Cook’ry_ pop out of the regular crowd of Shakesphere and Dickens. 

The man hangs his wet coat before the fireplace. “I was going to make some tea, but I’m afraid I’d need a wand to start a fire. If I could just borrow your lighter…” 

Harry eyes the man warily. “Or I could do it. How do you lit a fire with magic?” 

“The incantation is _Incendio_. Do a motion like this-” the man demonstrates, “as you say it, and focus on channeling your magic, from your center, through your hand, and then out through the wand.” 

“Like this?” Harry gives the wand a wave. 

“Quite close, quite close, but the end should be a little bit sharper.” 

Harry gives it another try, and this time the man gives him an affirmative hum. 

Harry points the wand towards the hearth, and moves it in the motions, saying, “Incendio!” 

Nothing happens. 

“Incendio’s a difficult spell to start off with,” the man says soothingly. “Witches and wizards generally start with much simpler spells.” 

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t think that’s it. The man talked about channeling his magic- and Harry tried, but he couldn’t feel anything. No tingle, no taste. Nothing. 

Harry uses the lighter to start the fire instead. 

“I was going to cook dinner now,” the man says. “Would you like some?” 

Harry shrugs. On one hand, he’s really hungry, plus he’s sick of eating stale bread. On the other hand, he still doesn’t really trust the man. 

The man returns from the cupboard after a bit, rice cake, pot noodles, and jar of Marmite in hand. “None of them opened,” he tells Harry. Harry checks; he isn’t lying. 

“You can have some rice cakes and Marmite while we wait,” he says, handing Harry a butter knife for the Marmite. The man sets a kettle on the fire. Harry slowly begins to eat. 

“You going to properly explain now?” Harry asks around the food in his mouth. 

The man hums. “I suppose I should start at the very beginning…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> out of curiosity, what house do you think this Harry would end up in?


	8. through the clearing smoke ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to finally actually make sense.

**8\. through the clearing smoke ii**

“The first thing you must understand- although I suppose by now you already know this all too well- is that having magic doesn’t make someone a better person. Us magical people are just as flawed as any Muggle.” 

“Muggle?” Harry asks, slathering more Marmite on his rice cake. 

“That’s a nonmagical person,” the man explains. “Like your aunt.” Harry shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t like how much the man knows, even with the “family friend” excuse. 

The man continues, “Some magical people think that it does make them better than muggles, though. They don’t like magical creatures- that’s goblins, merpeople, centaurs, all of them. And they don’t like those with muggle or creature blood.” 

“Muggle blood?” 

“Sometimes muggles have children with magic. They’re called muggleborns. Other times, magical people marry muggles. These are called halfbloods. People with magical parents and grandparents are called purebloods. The purebloods who don’t think muggleborns or halfbloods are as good as them are called blood purists.” 

Like racism, but magical, Harry thinks dryly. He only realizes he said it aloud when the man cracks a smile and remarks, “A very insightful comment.” 

After a minute, the man continues. “Some time ago, a powerful wizard began to make a name for himself. He called himself Lord Voldemort- although most magical people don’t say the name, out of fear. Other blood purists joined with him. His inner circle was known as the Death Eaters. ”

The man seems to get lost in thought. “At the same time, some young wizards and witches were going to school at Hogwarts. Their names were James Potter-” Harry looks up with a start, “-Lily Evans, Peter Pettigrew, Remus Lupin, and-” he grimaces, “-Sirius Black.” 

“I,” the man adds belatedly, “am Remus Lupin.” 

Lupin seems to expect Harry to have some sort of big, positive reaction, but Harry’s not even sure if the man is telling the truth. Lupin is quiet for a moment, then continues, seeming to have wilted a bit. Harry tries, rather unsuccessfully, not to feel bad.

Lupin sighs. “The first years at Hogwarts were good. We were all distracted by the highs and lows of school life… I could go into greater detail there, but I suppose you’re impatient to learn more about the Death Eaters. Well, once we were out of school, we decided to fight the Death Eaters… we joined the Order of the Phoenix, an organization working against them.” 

“There was a… a prophecy. I don’t know the exact details, but it implied that you were destined to defeat Lord Voldemort.” 

Harry’s head jerks up, and a bit of rice cake falls from the corner of his lips. The _fuck_? 

Lupin continues along serenely, like that type of thing is an everyday occurrence where he’s from. “Your parents, of course, hid. They used a special brand of magic that would hide and protect you from all harm, as long as the one with whom they entrusted their secret did not betray them.” 

Lupin pauses. “Their secret keeper was Sirius Black.” 

They’re quiet for a while. Lupin seems lost in memories, and Harry’s losing his mind over this “prophecy” bullshittery. 

“Do you have proof for any of this?” Harry asks at last, scraping a last hint of Marmite out of the jar as he does so. He licks the knife, then waves it around for extra emphasis as he says, “And what’s the logic that since you knew my parents from school, my dog is this Sirius Black bloke?” 

Harry hopes this guy isn’t a _violent_ nutter. It’s so nice just to sit by the fire, even if it is next to a guy who’s obviously nuttier than Aunt Petunia’s most vile fruitcake. 

Lupin sighs, swallows a couple of times, then says rather painfully, “I’m a werewolf.” 

Harry’s grip on the knife tightens. “What does that mean? You planning to eat me or something?”

“Every full moon, I-” he swallows, “-transform. I lose control, become a mindless beast. That’s why I’m so scarred.” 

“Okay,” Harry says warily. “And what does this have to do with my dog?” 

“James, Peter, and- the traitor- decided to become Animaguses to aid me in my transformation. Animaguses,” Lupin explains, “Are magical people who gain the power to transform into animals. By doing so, they could help me to- to not tear myself to pieces.”

“Again,” Harry says, licking the inside lip of the Marmite jar, “How are you going to prove this?”

“There is a way to force him to transform into his human form,” Lupin says.

“Okay.” 

There’s silence for a moment. Then, “I need my wand,” Lupin states dryly. 

Harry hesitates for an instant before realizing he put his hair spray down to scrape the Marmite jar, and if Lupin was a cult member, he would have already done something. He hands it over.

Once Lupin has the wand, he gives it a flick and says, “ _Accio!_ ” Snuffles’ limp body comes flying over. 

Lupin mumbles some garbled words, waves his wand over Snuffles’ limp body. Snuffles seems to stretch, rapidly growing from a dog, to a skeletal man with long, knotted hair, dressed in rags. 

Another flick of a wand wakes him. 

“Hello, Sirius,” Lupin says. His voice is both very calm and very deadly. “It’s been a while.” 

“It wasn’t me,” Black says at once. “I-” 

"As Harry would say, why don’t you try again?” Lupin suggests. 

“I wasn’t,” Black insists. “I would rather _die_ -” 

“And yet here you are. Still alive.” Lupin smiles rather tightly. “Of course, I can help with that.” 

“Let me _finish_!” Black bursts out. “If I had wanted to hurt Harry, I had a thousand opportunities! I didn’t! I protected him with everything I had. I watched over him, warded where he slept at night, chewed almost right through a Death Eater’s hand for him.” 

Lupin is speechless. 

Black’s voice softens. “I would have never betrayed _any_ of our friends. I would rather have _died_. I thought- I thought you knew that. I thought _everyone_ knew that. That’s why Peter became Secret Keeper instead of me- everyone knows James and me a- were like brothers. We knew know one would suspect Peter. I thought it would be-” Black’s lips peel back in an unhappy, ironic grimace, “-safer.” 

“And that’s why you said it was your fault,” Lupin says softly. “Because you suggested it be Peter…” he shakes his head. “Sirius, you damn fool.” He steps decisively forward and clasps Black in a tight embrace. 

“This still doesn’t answer why you were pretending to be my dog,” Harry says. He has to admit, he’s kind of pissed. 

“I needed to know you were okay,” Black tells Harry earnestly. “I saw a picture of Wormtail in the newspaper, with the Weasleys. I thought you were at Hogwarts, so I escaped. When I finally managed to find you... “ he hesitates. 

“I guess… I knew there would be people looking for me. Probably stuff in the news. And… you already had a family. Why would you want-” he gestures at himself. “Later, I realized I should tell you… but I guess I was just too scared.” He chuckles darkly. “How do you tell someone that you’re not a dog, but rather their wrongly convicted godfather who’s on the run?” He shakes his head, sighs. “I still should have told you. I’m sorry, Harry.” 

Harry sighs. “Yeah, alright, that’s an actually pretty good excuse. No harm, no foul, I guess." 

There’s a moment of quiet, and then Lupin says, “No offense, but you the two of you stink. How’d you like a bath?” and they’re back to business.


	9. pre flight checklist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The adults figure out a course of action.

**8b. through the clearing smoke**

Once Harry is safely in bed, Remus turns to Sirius exhaustedly. “What are we going to do?” 

Sirius shrugs slumped shoulders. “Here’s not safe, I know that much- I warded things as best I could, but I’ve had thirteen years to lose my skills, and I could only ward where we slept, not everywhere we travelled. The Death Eaters could be finding their way to us right now.” He takes a sip of his tea. “I suppose the best thing to do is to get a Patronus off to Dumbledore. The Order’s undoubtedly searching for Harry, and while they'd obviously be," he grimaced, ”less than delighted to see me, we could probably explain quickly enough for no real damage to be done." 

Remus shakes his head ashamedly. “I… I can’t cast one anymore.” 

Sirius’ skeletal fingers twitch, like he wants to give Remus’ hand a squeeze, but he only tightens his grip on his mug. “Okay. We’ll- we’ll figure out something else.” 

The two of them are quiet for a long time, and at last Sirius says, every syllable like a pulled tooth. “I suppose Grimmauld Place would work.” He takes another big sip of tea, as though to wash away the taste of his words. 

Remus smiles his worn smile. “Thank you, Sirius.” 

**9\. pre flight checklist**

Aunt Petunia is shaking Harry awake. Harry winces away, sure he’s slept in and is about to get punished him for it, but when his eyes flick open he sees it’s just Lupin. 

Lupin, mercifully, doesn’t comment, only says, “we’re going to London. There’s a house there where we should be safe.” 

“Right,” Harry manages around the gravelly desert that is his throat. 

“I’ll give you a moment to wake up. Come down whenever you’re ready- Sirius is cooking breakfast.” 

The smell of hot food entices Harry down within a few minutes time. Sirius is sitting close to the fire, cooking bacon and eggs on a pan right in the heart of the flames. Lupin, meanwhile is coaxing his books off his bookshelves with murmured words and little flicks of his wrist. Once they’re off the shelves, he shrinks them down so they’re the size of the little pocket bibles a bunch of evangelists once handed out at Rutherford, and then conducts them, fluttering, into a half-filled trunk by his feet. 

“Morning." Black greets Harry with a grin that reveals a set of rather unappealing teeth. 

“Morning.” Harry sits down a few feet away from Black. He’s not sure how he feels about the man- on one hand, Snuffles was one of Harry’s only friends, and on the other hand, Black isn’t exactly Snuffles. Sure, he may have been technically been Snuffles, but he was never _really_ a dog. Snuffles as Harry knew him never existed, and the fact that the real Snuffles is actually a human obviously makes things a lot more complicated. 

A flick of Lupin’s wand clears the vinyl records off the top of the piano. Lupin says something else, and a ten pence piece shoots out of the interior, hitting him in the nose and ricocheting to the floor. Lupin picks it up and then returns to incanting and waving his wand. The piano shrinks and folds inward, until it’s just a little cube of wood and tiny ivory squares like a baby animal's teeth. The entire thing could fit comfortably into the palm of Harry’s hand. The piano cube is also is sent flying over into the open trunk. Lupin waves his wand and the vinyl records grow thin as paper, and then neatly tuck themselves up against one of the walls of the trunk, right behind a stack of the miniaturized books. 

“Here you go.” Black’s raspy voice startles Harry out of his gaping. 

“Thanks.” Harry accepts the plate and digs in at once. 

“Aren’t you going to eat, too?” Black calls over to Lupin. 

Lupin shakes his head. “I need to finish packing.” He moves onto the worn armchair in the corner. He moves his wand carefully over the seams of the chair, casting in a low tone, and catching the coins that make their way out. Harry can't help but watch in fascination, even as his fork misses his mouth and fried egg falls back onto his plate. Once the armchair packed away, Lupin starts going over the floorboards. It’s only when Lupin passes right by him, chanting, “Accio lost coins… accio forgotten money… accio spare change…” that Harry starts to realize what’s really going on. 

“How are we going to get to the house?” Harry asks after a moment. Black’s back stiffens slightly, but Lupin answers easily. “We’re going to rent my muggle neighbor's car.” 

“Just a moment.” Harry hurries into the tiny foyer. The coat rack is gone, presumably shrunk down to doll proportions and stuck in Lupin’s trunk with the rest of the furniture, but his backpack is still there. Harry digs around for the cash Mrs. Gallagher gave him what felt like years ago. Harry knows from the times the Dursleys have rented cars that it generally costs about two hundred pounds, so he counts off a hundred. 

“Lupin,” Harry calls. Lupin’s there before he can even properly exit the foyer. 

“My half of the car rental,” Harry says, and shoves the money at him. 

Lupin’s hand moves seemingly automatically to grab the money. “And Sirius?” he asks lightly, the corners of his lips rising slightly. 

“What about him?” 

“You don’t expect him to pay for his third?” 

“It’s hardly as if he’s got a wallet on him, all things considering,” Harry says. Lupin’s eyes crinkle slightly as he smiles. Harry can feel his shoulders loosen. 

“Right,” Lupin says, then, still smiling, “I suppose I’m off to go rent a car. I hope you and Sirius enjoy your breakfast.” Lupin exits the foyer out into the crisp morning air. For a moment, Harry watches as he gracefully mounts his bicycle and disappears down the path, and then Harry turns and heads back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be combined with chapter 10, but it ended up rather longer than expected, so when I reached a natural stopping point, I ended this chapter. That's what the chapter's kind of short. Hopefully it's still enjoyable :)


	10. a brief flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're off.

**10\. a brief flight**

Harry and Black are polishing off their eggs when the door bursts open and Lupin strides in, looking pale. “Are you finished eating?” 

“What happened?” Black asks. 

“The muggle police are on the lookout for you and Harry,” Lupin says. “I’m not sure what they think you lot did, but it must be serious, considering how my neighbor acted. We need to go, _now_.” 

Harry pulls on his trainers without even tying them, and slings his backpack over one shoulder. Outside, it’s cold and bright, with dew clinging to the little old tree. Harry slides into the backseat of the beige car Lupin’s renting. Black, rapidly transforming into a dog, leaps in after him. 

Lupin checks the mirrors with shaking hands, letting out a slow breath that the cold air turns to mist. Harry shifts uncomfortably and reaches for the grab handle. He really hopes that Lupin knows what he’s doing. The bumpy, unpaved path'll be bad enough for an experienced driver, and Harry generally prefers to keep his breakfast in his stomach where it belongs.

Lupin puts his foot on the gas and they jerk forward, puddle water splashing up and hitting the side of the car. Lupin’s grip tightens to the point of whitening on the steering wheel, and he tries again, slower this time. 

They inch a long at a snail’s pace for a little while, but it’s still painfully bumpy, and, Lupin, mindful of how urgent this is, slowly picks up the pace. This turns out to be a bad idea, as they find when they hit a huge pothole. Lupin sails into the ceiling, and Snuffles whams into the seat in front of him. Snuffles whines, rubbing at where his nose bashed into the back of the seat. 

“Sorry,” Lupin says rather tightly, but he doesn’t slow down. 

“C’mon, sit up here with me,” Harry tells Snuffles. Snuffles leaps up and lays down on the car seat right next to Harry. Harry takes a hold of Snuffles’ shoulders, and the next time they hit a pothole, Snuffles isn’t thrown around nearly as much. 

It takes a painfully long time to get onto a better maintained road. As soon as they do, Lupin speeds up more, and Snuffles tucks his nose into his paws and goes to sleep. Harry listens to the static-y music from the radio and watches the rolling green pass him by. Snuffles is a warm, comforting weight on his legs. Harry’s eyes slowly slip close and he sinks away. 

Harry jogs through the forest, fear crushing his chest like an iron fist around his rib cage. There’s an eerie green glow to the forest that is dangerously familiar. Harry’s alone, but he knows there should be people with him- did he lose them? Where are they? Are they okay? 

A high, female scream suddenly rips through the air, and Harry slams to the ground. He grabs hold of a nearby gravestone and tries to use it to pull himself to his feet, but he can’t stand. He cowers behind it, trying to be absolutely silent, absolutely still. He holds his breath, waiting. 

The screaming reaches a full crescendo, and a sort of cold cackling joins it. Harry knows someone is standing in front of the gravestone, even though he can’t hear the footsteps. 

“Harry Potter,” says the high, cold voice, and Harry’s world is consumed by green flames. 

Harry jerks awake, groggy and disoriented. Bright sunlight is cutting through his sleep crusted lids, and he can feel his sweaty body, constrained by his seat belt. 

His eyes flick open. He’s in a car- Lupin’s neighbor’s car. Right. He draws in a few deep breaths, chances a quick glance at Lupin to see his reaction. 

“There’s take out for you on the seat next to you,” Lupin says mildly. “I wasn’t sure what order you wanted, exactly, so I just got you a burger and some fries.” 

Harry stares at it, an odd lump developing in his throat. “Thanks,” he says at last, and blinks several times to get rid of some moisture around his eyes. It’s just a burger, no need to get emotional. It’s just that, well, no one’s ever bought him food, like that. Technically, the Dursleys do buy him food, but not like this. 

Harry blinks, hard, and puts it out of his mind. He shifts into a more comfortable position (being careful not to wake Snuffles as he does so) and digs in. 

“We passed through Leeds about thirty minutes ago,” Lupin says, “and that’s where I picked up lunch. We’re on the M1 motorway right now.” 

Harry chews and swallows a bite of burger. “What’s today?” He wipes a smear of grease from the corner of his mouth. “What day of the week is today, I mean?” 

“Tuesday.” 

Harry got kidnapped on Friday… it’s been about three and a half days, then. That seems like way too short a time- but at the same time, way too long a time. It’s just… weird. Harry’s three days into summer break. He should be weeding and cooking and doing chores at Number Four, and working for Mrs. Gallagher, and maybe hanging out at the library. Not… on the run from kidnappers, having recently learned magic is real, with some estranged family friends, one whom is a werewolf, the other a falsely imprisoned fugitive from the law who can turn into a dog. It sounds like the plot of a shitty C-list movie. 

At least the food is good. Maybe it’s just because of how little proper food Harry’s had for the last couple days, but the burger tastes _perfect_. It’s greasy and salty and probably horrifically unhealthy and Aunt Petunia would probably lock him in his room for a week if she knew and Harry _loves_ it. 

Harry finishes up his food, and balls up his trash. Lupin nods to the drink holder in the center of the car, and Harry tosses it in. They ride in comfortable quiet, just listening to the radio and Snuffles’ snoring. 

After a while, Harry takes a little fortifying breath and asks, “You said you knew my parents?” 

Lupin straightens in his seat. “I did.” A tentative smile flits across his face. “Would you like to hear some stories about them?” 

Harry nods, and Lupin begins to tell him all about the parents he never knew. 

**10b. superiors**

“You said he rented out your Austin Metro? When was this?” The police chief asks. 

“Just this morning,” Jim replies. “He said there was a family emergency in London, and he had to get there as quickly as possible.” Seeing the expression on the police chief’s face, Jim is quick to add, “Remus is a good man, sir. A bit… eccentric, yes, but very kind. I’ve never had any sort of trouble with him. Always gets his rent in, very honest and…” Jim gets the distinct impression the police chief isn’t listening to a word he’s saying. 

“What is this Remus fellow’s full name?” The police chief asks.

Jim sighs. “Remus John Lupin.” 

“And what does he look like?” 

“Around in his thirties, but his brown hair is already turning grey hair,” Jim says reluctantly. “Tall, a bit more than six feet, I think. Thin, too. Lined face, with some scarring on it- big scratches, I suppose. A bit of a thin mustache.”

The police chief nods, noting all of this down. “And your car’s license plate number?” Jim rattles it off quickly, and once the police chief has it, he gives Jim a nod. “Thank you, I’m sure this will be very helpful to my superiors.” 

It's only after the police car disappeared around the bend that Jim realizes- that was the _police chief_. What does he mean by _superiors_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this being late!


	11. gathering speed and height

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They reach the safe house, which seems oddly unsafe.

**11\. gathering speed and height**

“Left or right?” Lupin asks.

Black bats his tangled curls out of his face with a flick of his head and peers around the dreary surroundings. “This is close enough,” he says at last. “I think we’d better walk. Disillusion ourselves, of course.”

“Right,” Lupin says, and parks the car at the curb. 

It’s still bright out, but cloudy; the sky is a void of searing white that is almost as hard to look at as the sun. Black looks washed out and greenish, and similarly, the dreary Islington neighborhood they’ve parked in only looks grimer under the bright light.

“There’s an alley over there,” Black says, giving it a jerky nod. Once they’re hidden from view, Lupin taps Black’s greasy head with his wand, and first his head, then his shoulders, then the rest of his body, melts away, like a chameleon changing to the colors of its surroundings. 

Lupin taps Harry’s head next. There’s a feeling like someone just cracked a raw egg over him, and he can feel the cool, slightly slimy feeling rolling down him as the magic moves over him. Harry examines his fingers in fascination; they’re the exact shade of the pavement he’s holding them over. It’s like what muggle camouflage clothing would be, if it was perfectly accurate.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Black says, and strides quickly out of the alley. 

Black leads them into a small square. There’s a bit of scruffy grass and a copse of half-drowned trees, circled by unfriendly looking townhouses. Black walks so fast that even Lupin, with his long legs, struggles to keep up. Black’s lips are pressed tightly together, his hands shoved roughly in his pockets. He doesn’t look at the houses on either side, but seems to know exactly where he’s going. 

At length, he stops between two of the townhouses. One has a couple overflowing bin bags out front, and is fairly thudding with how loud its stereo is. The broken pane at the top of the other reveals a well-tended plant. Both are very obviously occupied. Harry chances a look at Black. His lips are moving without sound, and he appears to be counting the wrought iron spear points on Number Thirteen’s fence. 

He stops at a specific spear point about halfway down the fence, and taps the very tip of it with his finger. Despite its blunt appearance, his finger comes away bloodied. “Toujours Pur,” he says. Suddenly the two townhouses are pushing apart, revealing a third, much more rundown, townhouse. The stereo is still thumping and the plant hasn’t been jostled in its position in the upstairs window, and yet there it is, like a dangling sun spot in the center of Harry's vision. 

The walls are blackened with grime. The front door is adorned with peeling black paint, and a tarnished silver door-knocker in the shape of a serpent. Harry smells the familiar smell of things under overturned stones. 

Black glares at the townhouse like it’s wronged him, but a look from Lupin shakes him out of it. He ascends the crumbling steps and moves towards the door as if expecting it to swing open before him. It shivers, but doesn’t open. 

“Open,” Black commands coldly. The door shudders, but doesn’t budge. Black gives the door a sharp knock with the silver serpent. There’s a cascade of metallic snicking, like a clockwork spider clicking its mandibles, and a noise like a chain scraping past, and then the door reluctantly creaks open. 

Harry enters into the darkened hall right behind Black. Harry can tell by way of air currents it is evidently both narrow and tall; those same air currents carry to him a strong stink of rot, and licorice, and the strange mushrooms that grow in the crevices of the oldest trees. Harry is just tracing his eyes over the intricate, silvery lacework of spiderwebs that hangs before him when Lupin shuts the door and banishes them into the pitch dark. 

“Merlin, this is always the worst part,” Black grumbles into the stifling silence, and then there’s an odd, sibilant hissing, and the gas lamps flick on, sketching out the outlines of the hall in obscure, yellowed, lighting. Harry eyes the winding, dark staircase with interest, and tries to make out the features of the crooked portraits. Above them, a silver chandelier in the shape of a serpent gleams like a crescent moon. 

Black lets out a long, rattling sigh. “I don’t even know where to start,” he says in an undertone.

“What bit of the house do you think is most likely to be safe?” Lupin asks gently.

“My old bedroom, but the stairs could be deadly,” Black whispers back.

“So not one of the upper stories,” Lupin surmises. “What could we reach without climbing the stairs?” 

“The drawing room, the bedroom for especially hated guests, and the kitchen. Morgana knows the knives have had more than enough time to go feral.” He laughs in an undertone, sounding a bit hysterical, then says, reluctantly, “I think we’d better give the drawing room a try.” He looks back at Harry and Lupin in the low lighting and orders, “Harry, get your lighter out.”

Harry rummages around in his backpack until he finds his lighter and hairspray, and Black, in turn, draws the wand Harry took from the Death Eater. 

“Ready?” Black asks. Harry thinks he can hear a slight tremble in Black’s usually steady voice. Once Lupin and Harry have nodded back, Black leads them deeper in. 

After no more than ten steps, Harry trips over what appears to be the severed leg of some strange, greenish creature. A couple old umbrellas spill onto the floor, along with a shelled creature that quickly scuttles away deeper in the gloom. He squints into the darkness after it, but can’t quite make out what it could be. 

“Keep moving,” Lupin tells him softly. Harry tears his gaze away, and follows after Black. 

The old gas lamps create pools of shadow and light, on the edge of which Harry thinks he glimpses strange things. His eyes linger in particular on a blueish black stain that Harry has the oddest feeling is blood, despite the color. 

It’s a strangely long walk to the drawing room; the house seems much bigger on the inside than it is on the out. The drawing room, also, is disportionately large; the first steps inside, on the scratched up wood flooring, echo like they’re inside a church. 

Only a few more steps in, and they’re walking on a thick, ancient carpet that squelches ever so slightly under their feet, like forest moss after a long rainstorm. Harry can see an ornate fireplace on the far wall, along with two cabinets with glass so clouded over he can only make out the barest outlines of shapes. 

“I think this will make an excellent base of operations,” Lupin says, trying for optimism. Heading to the windows, he opens up with long, moldering curtains with a flick of his wand. A whole swarm of flying things zoom out. 

“Flipendo!” Lupin calls, knocking a whole host of them back. 

“Don’t let them bite, they’re poisonous,” Black tells Harry, freezing a couple stranglers that Lupin missed with a spell of his own. 

Harry spots a purple beetle-gleam in the corner of his eye and instinctively shoots out a bit of flame. The charred creature drops to the ground, dead. 

“It’s a fixer-upper,” Lupin admits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so much fun to write! I had some free time so I decided to write a bit, not expecting to finish it off, but this just happened naturally, and I figured an early chapter would be a good way to counterbalance the other late one. I hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


	12. a trail of smoke and sulfur behind & the ground far below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go downhill.

**12\. a trail of sulfur and smoke behind**

“I’m not sure what exactly is going on with the fireplace, but I doubt it’s easily fixed,” Black says at last, unbending himself from his kneeling position before the fireplace. 

“It’s fine, it’s just one night,” Lupin soothes. “Tomorrow, I’ll go to Diagon Alley and rent out an owl, let Professor Dumbledore know Harry’s safe-” 

A voice like a grandfather gargling gravel cuts in. “Master Sirius has returned at long last to the house of his forefathers.” Black’s back straightens to a soldier’s ramrod straight posture and he slowly turns toward the wrinkled creature standing in the doorway. 

“Looking surprisingly well, considering his… company,” The creature says lowly. It’s the size of the child but with skin like an elephant’s, and ears to match. “What Mistress would say to Kreacher, the scum Master brings into Mistress’ house…” 

“I’d say this house is doing worse than I am, thanks,” Black remarks coldly. He looks oddly aristocratic, despite his knotted hair and wiry beard. “Then again, that’s not saying much. The decor has always been hideous.” 

“Of course, Master Sirius has always had his little jokes,” The odd creature flatters loudly, then, still very much audibly, “As if a blood traitor knows anything about decor… sullies Mistress’ halls with a half-blooded squib...”

Black barks a harsh laugh. “I think you and I have very different ideas of what is and isn’t ‘sullying’, Kreacher. And you must be going senile in your old age, to think that just because Harry isn’t trained up, he isn’t a wizard.”

“Yes, Master Sirius,” Kreacher says to Black, then, still audibly, “The halfblood is as magical as mud, Kreacher knows… blood shows, Mistress always said, blood shows, and Mistress was right, of course…”

“Don’t worry Harry,” Black says loudly, “Kreacher is just trying to rile you up, you’ll be a stellar wizard once you get trained up properly.” Harry doesn’t respond. 

“...Master Sirius perhaps needs a reminding that beasts don’t make for good pets, as well. Mistress knew that the only good werewolf was a dead werewolf, oh yes she did, told Kreacher a hundred times...” 

Black’s face is transformed by rage. “What did you say?” He growls, drawing his wand.

“Stand down, Sirius,” Lupin says, voice tightly controlled. 

Black doesn’t move. 

“Stand _down_ ,” Lupin says again, and Black slowly lowers his wand, though he doesn’t look at all happy about it. 

“Why don’t we set some ground rules?” Lupin suggests lightly, once Black no longer looks quite so murderous.

“Ground rules sound _fantastic_ ,” Black cuts in with a sharp grin. “Kreacher, you’re to obey whatever Harry and Remus say. No comments about Remus being a werewolf, or Harry’s blood status, or what my mother would have wanted- in fact, no comments at all, except if one of us tells you to.” 

“Sirius,” Lupin says, a disapproving note in his voice. 

“What?” Black grins. “It’s just some ground rules. Oh and Kreacher, don’t leave the grounds unless we tell you to- and no letting anyone know where we are. Understood?” He twirls his wand between the fingers. 

“Kreacher understands. May Kreacher go?” 

“Yes, you may.” 

“Sirius, can I talk to you for a moment?” 

One of the walls, Harry realizes, is covered by a huge tapestry; before Lupin opened up the curtains, it was in shadow, and he had no idea that it even existed. It looks like some sort of family tree. Here and there on the tapestry are scorched circles, like places where someone put out oversized cigarettes. Harry inspects it closely. The names on it seem right out one of the classics Harry’s had to trudge through in English class. Under one of the scorched circles is Sirius' name. Feeling like he’s intruded, Harry moves on. 

There’s also a writing desk made out of dark, gleaming wood, which is shaking ominously. Harry gives it a wide berth, taking a closer look at the cabinets instead. One of them smells like the shack with the snakeskin nailed on it did- things under overturned stones, rot, storm. Harry’s tongue tingles with static, and he swallows hard. 

“It turns out I forgot to pack anything to eat,” Lupin tells Harry. “I’m going to go pop by the nearest grocer’s real quick- is there anything you’d like me to pick up?” 

“Maybe some cleaning supplies,” Harry says. “White vinegar would work really well. Plus I’d feel better if I had some more hairspray.” He grabs his backpack and starts rummaging around for his money. “Just give me a moment.” 

“Oh, there’s no need,” Lupin says.

Harry hesitates, then shrugs. “Alright. Thanks.” 

Lupin leaves, and Snuffles curls up on one of the sofas and takes a nap. Harry’s exhausted, but at the same time, way too wired for sleep. He notices that he doesn’t feel comfortable letting the cabinets out of his line of his vision; every time he turns his back to them, his neck tingles like static-y fingers are running up it. 

Harry moves a sofa so he can sit while keeping the cabinets squarely in his line of sight, and digs around in his backpack looking for something to do. The empty egg carton and the twisted plastic that held the bacon go into the fireplace, along with a few long-dry ballpoint pens and crumpled assignment sheets. Harry thumbs through his battered binder and ends up putting most of those papers into the fireplace, too. The sight of his schoolwork is oddly nostalgic; Harry wishes his biggest worries right now were school and the Dursleys. 

Harry considers brushing his fuzzy teeth with the mint toothpaste he bought for the Dursleys, but decides not to. He doesn’t have any water to rinse with, and he doesn’t fancy swallowing toothpaste. Instead, he stacks and restacks his six unopened cans. The Death Eater mask seems to be staring right up at him from where it fell on the grimy floorboards. 

“You should fear me,” Harry tells the room at large, although he can’t think of anything particularly scary about a magicless, rather short fifteen year old. 

**12b. the ground far below**

Remus is halfway across the square when a Stunner whizzes past him, so close he can feel it singe his hair. 

_Shit_ , he thinks dizzily, and ducks behind one of the pathetic trees for a bit of cover. 

With patience, careful silence, and the expert use of a Disillusionment Charm, Remus manages to sneak back into Number 12 Grimmauld Place, but he knows the damage is done. They’ll be watching the square like hawks. Remus enters the drawing room with a heavy heart. 

Padfoot in snoring on one of the couches; Harry is sitting cross legged on the the other. His backpack appears to have thrown up onto the floor. There’s even, Remus notes with a shiver, the mask of that Death Eater he and Sirius somehow managed to take down together. 

“Don’t trust that cabinet,” Harry says without looking over. His voice is dead serious, his face stony. 

“What?” Remus asks, confused.

“Nothing.” Harry smiles sheepishly. “Just being silly, I guess.” 

Remus is about to ask for more details when Harry quickly asks, “Did you get the white vinegar?”

“I did,” Remus confirms. “There wasn’t any hairspray, though.” Remus hands him the vinegar and goes over to wake Padfoot. He isn’t looking forward to telling Sirius the bad news, but it has to be done. 

“So we’re stuck here,” Sirius states, sounding strangled. 

“Wait, are we still safe here?” Harry interrupts. “They know we’re here, so we should be leaving, right?” He shoves the stack of cans into his backpack, grabs the Death Eater mask. 

“No, the wards are still there. They know we’re somewhere in the square, but they still can’t see this house, and can’t get in,” Remus tells Harry, and then, turning to Sirius, “Only until we can fix the Floo.” 

“How much food did you buy?” Harry asks, putting down his backpack. 

“Enough for about a day if we stretch it,” Remus says.

Harry nods. “I’ve got a couple of cans, and a half a loaf of bread. How long do you think fixing the Floo is going to take?” 

“I don’t even know if it can be fixed,” Sirius mumbles. 

“If it really comes down to it, we could try to apparate out,” Remus suggests. 

“I suppose getting splinched _would_ be a more merciful death than slow starvation,” Sirius agrees sardonically, flopping his head onto the back of the sofa and staring blankly up at the ceiling. 

“Apparate?” Harry asks. 

“Teleportation, basically,” Remus says. “Very handy, but if it’s done incorrectly, can be fatal. It takes a lot of concentration and magic, especially if you’re out of practice. Prolonged exposure to Dementors is quite draining to one’s magic, and so is being a werewolf- even in my youth, apparating was a difficult and dangerous experience for me.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. 

They fall into silence.


	13. fuse being devoured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They try to make the best of it.

**13\. fuse being devoured**

The next morning, they venture deeper into the house. The kitchen is the first place they go. It’s absolutely cavernous. The high ceilings are hung with tarnished pots and pans that sway ominously above. There’s a long wooden table in the center of the room, and loads of cupboards and drawers, which the group starts digging through, looking for food. Most of it is rotten- the stasis charms must have broken, Black says- but they’re desperate enough to look through it anyway. 

In one corner of the kitchen, there are bottled grounds herbs sitting in dark wood alcoves. Harry has to pull over a chair to get a proper look, it’s so high up. The yellowed labels say they’re things like crown for a king, blood of hestia, whole fern flowers, dew of the sea, and earth smoke. Harry’s not sure how edible they are, but he lifts them down anyway. 

Lupin is luckier; he finds a stash of canned goods. Some of them are quite unappetizing, like the stuff that’s labeled pickled squid or alligator guts jam, but there’s some proper fruit spreads, as well as a few cans of salmon. 

Black, for his part, finds the liquor cabinet. “You wanted more hairspray, right?” He says, taking it down bottle by bottle. “This might work as a replacement. Alcohol’s flammable, you know.” 

They go out into the backyard next. Like the house, the backyard seems larger than the common size of a townhouses’ land should allow. Also like the house, it’s quite rundown; the garden looks more like a large blob of indistinct greenery than a real garden. Harry has to pick things out one by one from the greenery; a large pond almost overflowing with still green water, a small tree drenched in yellow flowers, some sort of shrubbery right by the fence. 

“I see Kreacher still hasn’t gotten rid of that creepy statue,” Black says sourly.

“What?” 

Black nods toward the tree. Harry squints slightly, and sees that there’s a tarnished stone statue standing right next to the trunk. It’s carved in the shape of a woman, covered in a long veil. A snake curls around the top of her head like a crown. Yellow flowers hang from her shoulders. 

“Is there anything here that’s edible?” Lupin asks. 

“The bilberry bushes at the back have edible berries,” Black says. “I think maybe some of the plants on the ground too, but I can’t remember which.” 

While Lupin and Black pick their way to the back of the garden, Harry examines the ground plants. In the center of the garden, mint seems to have overtaken anything else that might have grown there, but on the other side of the garden pond, there are three raised beds containing, respectively, black pansies, purple carnations, and long dead dahlias. 

“There’s mint here, along with some carnations and pansies. I think the pansies might be edible, but I’m not sure,” Harry tells the others. 

“Right,” Black says. “How about if you come over here and help us pick berries?” 

Harry gingerly picks his way over to join Lupin and Black.

“I’ve always hated those yellow flowers,” Black says conversationally. “They smell like cat piss, you know. I think my mother only got them since they have the word ‘snake’ in their name. Fucking obsessed.” He tosses a berry into his mouth. 

There are a lot of berries to pick, and Lupin starts looking a bit tired and pale. 

“Why don’t you sit down?” Black suggests, gesturing to a bench mostly hidden by the bilberry bushes. “It’s fine, we’ve got this.” 

Lupin sits down with a relieved sigh. The seat of the bench is oddly high off the ground; even with Lupin as tall as he is, his feet don’t quite touch the ground. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors on the other side of the fence could see the top of Lupin’s head- although he supposes the wards make that impossible.

By the time Harry and Black have finished picking all of the berries, Lupin is looking a bit better. They head back inside- Lupin and Black seem to think they have enough food for now, and Lupin is eager to start working on fixing the Floo. 

“I suppose we’d better head to the library,” Black says reluctantly. “Unless there’s anything else we need?” He glances at Lupin, then Harry. “Actually… Harry could do with some proper clothes.” He speeds up, a bounce in his step now. “C’mon!” 

Black leads them to the stairs, looking far too cheerful considering the wrinkled heads set above them like trophies of the stairs’ past kills.

“It’s fine,” Harry says. “These clothes aren’t so bad.” 

“Oh, we’re going to have to climb them to get the library anyway,” Black says. He skewers the stairs with a deadly look. “You’re not going to make any mischief, are you?”

The stairs shudder slightly, and Black frowns. He draws his wand and taps the banister, muttering something under his breath. “Right,” he says at last. “It should be safe...ish. Don’t show any fear.” 

With that reassuring suggestion, he bounds up them. Harry and Lupin follow far more gingerly behind, avoiding the steps that Black tells them to. 

Black gestures to a door embellished with a silver nameplate reading “Sirius” in elegant cursive. “Welcome to my humble abode.” 

The room is spacious. In the center of the room, there’s a huge bed with a carved headboard. There’s a set of tall windows on one side, which are cloaked by thick curtains. A candle chandelier hangs above. In those respects, the room fits with the rest of the house. But in the others, it most definitely does not. 

The green wallpaper only peeks out occasionally. The walls are covered; magazine cut outs of girls in bikinis, ads for motorcycles, flyers for punk concerts, even a movie poster or two. The floor is similarly blanketed; papers, books, and clothes are strewn everywhere. There’s a thick layer of dust over everything, like it hasn’t been touched in years. 

Black grins, and Harry can almost see the tension roll off of him. “Much better.” He cracks his knuckles. “How do you feel about leather jackets?” 

“Uh,” Harry manages. 

“Common response,” Black nods, starting to dig through the mess on the floor. “They’re a bit of an acquired taste, I suppose. I’m not sure if I have any jackets _but_ leather, though…” 

“I don’t need a jacket,” Harry says, glancing at Lupin helplessly. 

“Nonsense, this house is freezing,” Black says. “You can’t fight Death Eaters and live to tell the tale and then die of cold! That would just be _embarrassing_!” He appears to find what he was looking for. “Here it is! Merlin, I loved this jacket- I think I might have shed more than a few tears when I outgrew it.” He tosses it over. “Try it on.” 

A couple of spikes stick out of the shoulders. There’s a handful of patches clustered near where the breast pocket would be. It seems like something Simon would like. Harry shrugs it on. It’s a couple of sizes too big, and Harry feels kind of like a little kid playing dress up, but Black beams. “Look at you! How do you like it?” 

“It’s good,” Harry says. “Really comfy.” It actually is. Harry didn’t know leather could be so comfortable. 

“Right!” Black grins. “Now all we need is some jeans, a couple of shirts, some shoes- I’m surprised you can even walk in shoes that big-” 

“Where’s the library?” Lupin interrupts. 

“Second landing, stand in front of the west wall and wish for it,” Black says from where he’s looking around for more stuff for Harry to try on. “Be careful!” he adds as Lupin leaves. 

“Hey, um,” Harry tries awkwardly, “Thank you,” he’s not sure what to call Black, “Mr. Black.” 

“Mr. Black?” One of Black’s eyebrows rises steeply, and he’s obviously trying to suppress a laugh. “Please, call me Sirius- and for that matter, call Remus by his first name, too.” 

“Thank you, Sirius,” Harry corrects himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The yellow flowers described are snake vine, if anyone's interested.
> 
> Posting this early because I've got a lot going on this weekend and I'm liable to forget otherwise. Hope you guys enjoyed it!


	14. hissing as it burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds something disturbing.

**14\. hissing as it burns**

After eating a quick lunch of bilberries, canned salmon, and rather stale bread, Sirius and Remus go back up to the library to do more research on how to fix the Floo. Harry, who has never been the best at school, and barely knows what a Floo was, asks to stay back and try to make the drawing room a bit more habitable. Sirius and Remus agree- but not before Sirius orders Kreacher to keep “so much as a hair on his head” from being harmed. 

Harry appreciates the sentiment, but it’s a little creepy how closely Kreacher is watching him. It reminds him of Aunt Petunia’s critical eye and brings up memories he prefers to squash. 

The cleaning itself is nice, though. Harry’s only done the windows, so far, but it’s been incredibly satisfying. The vinegar, mixed with the proper amount of hot water, works like a charm; with a bit of elbow grease and pressure, the dirt comes right off. Harry suspects the rest of the room will be rather harder to tame. 

Of course, the downside of the windows being so clean is that it makes it that easier to see the suspicious looking figures patrolling the grimey Islington neighborhood. Harry knows the wards keep them safe, but it’s still a bit nerve racking knowing Death Eaters are so close. 

After he finishes the windows, he decides to deal with the curtains, since he knows the doxies are poisonous, and it’s mostly luck that’s kept any of them from getting before now. He pulls one of the sofas over and stands on it so that he can reach up and carefully unhook the curtains. Then, moving slowly and smoothly so as not to wake the doxies, he walks over to where he’s got the big bucket of the hot water and vinegar mixture he used on the windows- he dumps them in! The water churns for a little while, and then is still. Harry waits a few minutes just to be safe, then pulls the curtains out of the water. What seems like hundreds of dead doxies float on the surface of the water. The volume of them is so much that the bucket is literally overflowing. 

Harry skims them off the top of the water and puts them in the fireplace to be burned. The curtains he hangs up to dry. 

Heartened by his success with the doxies, and determined to make the drawing room a safe place, he decides to go after the real danger here- whatever it is in the cabinet. 

Harry carefully prepares. He grabs his hairspray, checks that the lighter is still working smoothly, and grabs his hand-me-down shirt from Dudley to use as a layer between his skin and whatever-it-is. 

The shirt slips around when Harry tries to give the handle to the cabinet a pull, and Harry can’t get a proper grip. Gratified to have an excuse not to face his fear quite yet, Harry takes some time to rip up the old shirt and tie it around his hands to make a sort of makeshift set of gloves. 

He tries the handle again. It’s loose and wobbly feeling in his hand, but the door won’t open. He yanks it a few times, then finally leans his entire weight back against it. “Open,” he hisses angrily. 

The door abruptly gives, and the smell hits him like a brick to the face. His ears pop, his eyes burn painfully, and he gags, feeling his lunch rise up his throat. It’s all he can do to slam the door shut and run out of the room to draw in big gulps of comparatively fresh air. 

When the static has subsided enough to be manageable, and things don’t smell quite as awful, Harry tries again. He opens the door much more slowly this time, and is relieved to find that this time, it’s not too terribly difficult to deal with. 

All sorts of oddities crowd the shelves of the cabinet. Harry has no idea which one is the source of the stink; he’s going to have to sort through all of them. 

He starts with the top shelf. The first item he pulls down is a cut crystal bottle filled with blood, which bodes well for how the rest of this is going to go. When Harry gives it a cautious sniff, however, he finds that allow it certainly doesn’t smell pleasant, it also clearly isn’t the source of the stench. 

The vial of silvery hair isn’t the source, either. Nor is the black velvet bag of delicately carved human teeth, or the set of particularly gory tarot cards, or the withered rabbit foot. 

Nothing on the second shelf is the stench’s origin, either. Harry begins to relax and actually take some interest in the actual items, especially the ones that don’t smell so much. His favorites so far are the delicate skull of some sort of bird, and the tiny marble snuffbox. 

The farther down he gets, the worse the smell. Harry also starts to notice patterns; the pile of snakeskins just gets taller and taller, and at this point he’s collected enough rusty daggers to murder a dozen men without reusing a weapon once. There’s also a disconcertingly large amount of silver boxes with inscriptions in some unknown language that doesn’t look like anything Harry’s ever seen. Did Sirius’ mother have a collection, or something? 

By the time Harry reaches the bottom shelf, he’s breathing exclusively through his mouth, and it feels like he’s standing next to a lightning rod. The items on the bottom shelf seem more unfriendly than the others; when before, a stern look from Kreacher seemed to subdue any rebellious items, now Kreacher is starting to look distinctly worried, presumably of Sirius’ reaction if any of the bits and bobs hurt Harry. 

“It’s fine,” Harry tells Kreacher. “I’m being careful.” He wiggles his fingers, showing Kreacher the makeshift gloves. Kreacher’s lips only thin further. 

Harry pulls out an intricately carved music box which smells of insidious, stifling perfume. It’s worse than a lot of the other stuff Harry has found in the cabinet, but he knows it’s not the source of the distinct either, so he sets it gently on the floor. 

The items only get worse and worse. Harry is just pulling out what looks like a human eye preserved in some sort of liquid when his eyes land on something hidden in the corner and he knows that’s it. 

Dread closes its cold fist around his heart, but Harry steels himself and slowly reaches into the corner and draws out the item. 

Harry holds the thing by its gold chains, trying to ignore the irrational sense that it’s going to choke his fingers off, and slowly lifts it into the light. It’s a circular locket, made out of heavy gold. On the front is an S out of tiny green stones that glitter like watching eyes. Harry’s hand tingles and burns, and he quickly drops it to the floor. 

He can tell by Kreacher’s expression that Kreacher knows something about it. 

“Kreacher,” Harry asks around the sound of his heart pounding loudly in his ears, “what is that?” 

“Kreacher does not know,” Kreacher says sulkily. 

“Kreacher, I don’t know if you can tell, but that this is _awful_ ,” Harry says. “It’s- it’s _evil_. I need to know everything about it, so I can know how to destroy it.” 

Kreacher looks up, an odd expression on his face. “The squib would destroy it?” 

“I would,” Harry says, with absolute certainty. “It’s not safe.” 

“The Dark Lord asked Master Regulus for the service of a house elf,” Kreacher says abruptly. “Master Regulus ordered Kreacher to do his duty, then come home. Kreacher almost died, but Master Regulus told him to come home, so he did. Master Regulus asked Kreacher to take him back to the cave, and Kreacher did.” Kreacher’s eyes glitter, almost as if with tears. “Master Regulus ordered Kreacher to leave without him, and destroy the locket. Kreacher, tried, and tried, but could not- could not destroy it,” Kreacher confessed in a gravelly whisper. 

“By the Dark Lord, do you mean Lord Voldemort?” Harry asks softly. 

Kreacher flinches, but nods. 

That only solidifies Harry’s resolve. “Kreacher, I don’t know how to do it, but I promise you I’ll somehow destroy this thing.” 

Kreacher nods again, the odd expression back. This time, Harry recognizes it- something approaching happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this chapter's lateness, I had another really busy weekend. I also got distracted with this other idea I had for a Harry Potter fanfiction. I remember in this one Slytherin!Harry fanfiction I read said something about there only being halfbloods and purebloods in Slytherin, unless someone was running a long con. I've been interested in writing something like that for a couple of months, but it kind of came together last Thursday. I'll probably put it out in one long chunk instead of chapters, so it'll be a while, but if that sounds interesting to you, watch out for that! 
> 
> Anyway! I hope you guys enjoy the chapter. :)


	15. failure to ignite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you don't succeed.

**15\. failure to ignite**

Harry puts the locket into the same pocket of his backpack as the Death Eater mask and goes back to cleaning, his head buzzing as he tries to think of ways to destroy an indestructible object. He’s so deep in thought that when Sirius bursts into the room, he jumps. 

“I found some wands!” Sirius calls excitedly. “C’mon, they’re in a cabinet in the library.” 

Harry follows Sirius up the stairs and into the library. He barely has time to take in the endless bookshelves, or the earthy, metallic smell in the air before Sirius rushes him over to an old cabinet holding dozens of wands, each one with a yellowing label proclaiming it as the old wand of this or that member of the Black family. 

“They’re not the best quality, but better than nothing,” Sirius says. “Go on! Try them!” 

Harry hesitates, then opens the cabinet. He wrinkles his nose at the smell, and quickly grabs the first wand he sees. It feels like a stick in his hands, and when he waves it he knows he looks ridiculous. He raises it to his nose and gives it a sniff. His tongue tingles slightly at the smell of deep, brackish water. The wand works; it’s him that’s faulty. 

“What about this one?” Sirius suggests. “This one’s from my great aunt- she was slightly less of a bitch than the rest of them.” 

Harry waves it, but again, it’s a lump of wood in his hand. He can tell that if he doesn’t say something, Sirius will have him try every wand in the cabinet. He wets his lips anxiously, then manages to say, “I don’t think I have magic.” 

“Nonsense!” Sirius tells him reassuringly. “Wands are pretty finicky about who they’ll do magic for- especially wands like this. Wands have a tendency to take on the traits of their wizards, you know, and these particular wizards were always elitist pigs, so.” Sirius shrugs his skeletal shoulders. “Still, you should give them a try. It’s really important that you know how to defend yourself.” 

“No, I really think I’m not magical,” Harry insisted seriously. “I’ve never done anything magical.” 

“Has anything odd happened when you were upset? Girls who were teasing you suddenly getting pimples, or toys floating to you, or anything like that?” Sirius asks. 

“No,” Harry says. “Never.”

Sirius looks skeptical, so Harry continues, “I- I can smell magic, alright? Like this house smells kind of like a really old forest. That first wand smelt like a saltwater lake, the second like rusted metal. That’s how I woke up when we got- when we got ambushed back on the first night. And I’ve got none- I’ve never smelt any magic on myself.” 

“Maybe you just can’t sense it because you spend so much around it,” Sirius suggests. “Like if you smell a certain smell for a long enough time that it fades into the background. And you can sense magic! A magicless person wouldn’t be able to do that,” he shakes his head for added emphasis.

“Actually,” comes Remus’ voice suddenly, “some do.” 

“Really?” Sirius raises a dark eyebrow skeptically. 

“Yes,” Remus says. “I knew a middle-aged muggle woman who lived and worked most of her life directly next to Diagon Alley. She was able to hear magic, and later in life developed the ability to see, and enter, the Leaky Cauldron. Without it being pointed out to her, I mean. Without a wand, she couldn’t enter Diagon proper, but she did develop quite a taste for butterbeer.” 

For Harry’s benefit, Remus explains, “The Leaky Cauldron is a pub in London- not too far from here, actually, just a couple miles south- that’s meant to only let in magical people. You can use it access Diagon Alley, which sells all sorts of magical things.” 

“It’s so frustrating to think that Diagon’s just a couple of miles from here, and here we are, stuck in this hellhole,” Sirius grumbles. They’re quiet for a moment, and then Sirius said, “Couldn’t she have just been a muggleborn or something? Have magic so subtle she couldn’t go to Hogwarts?” 

Remus shakes his head. “Hogwarts accepts everybody with even the littlest smidgeon of magic.” 

There’s another awkward silence. Harry waits and waits for the others to say something, wondering if this was it. Would they still want to associate him now that they knew he didn’t have magic? 

He only realizes he said the last bit aloud when Remus vehemently shakes his head, Sirius joining him a half second later. “It just means it’ll be a bit harder for you to protect yourself properly,” Sirius says. “We’ll figure something out, though.” Harry feels something tight and hard in his chest loosen and fall away.


	16. hissing as it burns ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gives the locket a try. It goes about as well as can be expected.

**16\. hissing as it burns ii**

Remus and Sirius spend the rest of Wednesday reading in the library, and when they join Harry and Kreacher for dinner, they look frustrated and exhausted. Remus in particular looks really bad. Maybe, Harry thinks, the cold and damp of the old house is making him come down with something.

Harry has another restless night, this time unable to let his backpack out of his sight. By the very early morning, or very late night, depending on how you look at it, he’s given up on sleep altogether, and just stares at his backpack, trying to figure out the answer to this particularly unpleasant puzzle of his. 

He starts out with the things he knows. The locket’s creepy as fuck, like something out of a horror movie. It smells like things over overturned stones, rot, and storm. Like the shack just beyond the town. He remembers how the absolute dread the smell of that place struck in him- just like with the locket. There must be something else like the locket at the shack- something worse, even, for Harry to be able to sense it from so far away. Harry’s going to have to go back and destroy it. He doesn’t know when, or how, but he knows he must. Just as he must destroy the locket. 

Through the gloom of the night, Harry can see the ever-constant Death Eater watchers pacing on the sidewalk across from him. That first night, when the Death Eater found him, he felt storm-pressure, and smelled that same awful smell. That’s what woke him up, that’s what motivated him to cobble together his hairspray and lighter weapon. 

He smelled it in the graveyard, too. Not the rot, but the storm-smell, definitely. He remembers feeling the pressure of it, the feeling that the clouds were going to burst open and lightning and rain was going to pour down. 

Harry clenches his fists so tightly his fingernails feel like they’re biting into flesh as he thinks about other things in the graveyard- the disgusting wet noise as the hand fell into the water, the baby, the lights that shot by, missing him only by a hair. 

By the time he’s gotten his mind off of the graveyard, he’s so tired he falls asleep at long last. 

That morning, he picks at his breakfast, lost in thought. He’s thinking about snakes. The snake he spoke to back when they still lived at Privet, the snakeskin nailed to the shack, all of the likenesses of snakes within the house, the snake skins in the cabinet, the snake on the locket. Harry’s always had a bit of a soft spot for snakes, ever since speaking to the one at the zoo, but this is making snakes seem a lot more sinister to him. 

Once Remus and Sirius returned to the library, Harry carefully takes the locket out of his backpack. He lays it down on the floor, and, pointing the hairspray right at it, says “open.” 

Nothing happens. He’s not even sure if that was English or not; both modes of speaking sound normal to him, although he knows from Dudley’s reaction that when he speaks to snakes, it sounds like hissing. 

“Kreacher,” Harry says slowly, “I’m going to try something out on the locket and I need your help. Could you tell me if I’m speaking English or not, please?” Kreacher agrees, although he looks a bit confused.

He tries again, this time trying to imagine that the snake on the front is real. “Open.” 

He doesn’t need Kreacher to tell him that wasn’t English. The locket clicks open abruptly and a living eye scans the room. Horror wells up in Harry. He hurries back, instinct telling him that the eye must not see him. At the same time, Harry feels an odd compulsion to come and look into the eye- he wavers, tugged in both directions. He needs to act quickly. 

“Close!” Harry roars. The locket shudders violently, but won’t close. Worse yet, the eye flicks toward him. Harry avoids eye contact, shouting “Close!” again. This time, he punctuates it with a burst of fire. He lets up for a split second, and sees that the locket hasn’t been harmed at all. He envelopes it in another burst of flame, but the can of hairspray is out, and the eye shoots to his own, locking on to him. 

_“I have seen your heart, and it is mine,”_ a hissing voice says. _”I have seen your dreams, your fears, all of your desires and dreads. Unloved, parentless, a freak even in a world of magic…”_

“Potter-” Kreacher says, sounding worried. 

“Cl-close,” Harry tries, voice cracking, but even he can tell that that one was English. 

_”And I have seen, too, the hearts of the others in the house… Sirius, who you have so disappointed with your lack of magic… Remus, who finds you lacking, compared to your parents…”_

“KREACHER, CLOSE IT!” Sirius yells. Harry hadn’t even noticed him and Remus entering the room. 

Kreacher claps his hands together. The slap of his hands together echoes like a roll of thunder. The locket shudders, but does not close. 

“The Dursleys only treated you as they should… and soon Remus and Sirius will learn the truth, too, and treat you the-” Kreacher claps his hands again, louder and harsher, and this time the locket snaps closed. 

“Th-thanks,” Harry says shakily. He stares at the now-closed locket so that he doesn’t have to make eye contact with Remus or Sirius. 

“What was that?” Sirius asks.

Harry shrugs. “It’s the Dark Lord’s. There was something like it at the shack we biked past- I could smell it.” 

“This is Voldemort’s?” Remus asks in his worn, tired voice. 

“Yeah,” Harry says shortly. “You can ask Kreacher about it, I’m going to go- wash my face.” He hurries out. 

**16b. oil and water**

“You mean,” Sirius asks Kreacher slowly, “Regulus died fighting Voldemort?” 

Kreacher nods solemnly. 

Sirius’ eyes prick with tears even as the corners of his lips lift slightly. He knew that Regulus was killed by his fellows, but he assumed it was because of Regulus being too soft to withstand torture under his charismatic lord, too soft to stomach the bloodiness of the war he’d previously glorified. He had never thought Regulus would have it in him to ever truly question the Death Eaters- let alone to give his life fighting against him. It seems he greatly underestimated his little brother. If only he could speak to Regulus, apologize, become real brothers again… 

Sirius wipes at the tears dribbling out of the corner of his eyes, and swallows the thick lump that’s gathered in his threat. “Kreacher,” he says seriously, looking Kreacher right in the eyes, “I promise you, I will see to it that the locket is destroyed.” 

For a moment, Kreacher stares at him in abject shock, then he says slowly, “Potter promised that as well.” 

Remus, who until now has either been napping, or deep in thought, speaks up as well. “Between all four of us, the locket doesn’t have a chance.” Kreacher’s lips twitch, and a very strange thing happens- he grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done a lot of writing over break, so now I've got a bit of a backlog of chapters. I'll be posting them over the next couple of days, and then it's back to the regular schedule.


	17. pit of stomach & split second w/o gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is worrying Remus and Sirius. Harry is worried too, but for different reasons.

**17a. that feeling in your stomach**

“Did you hear what the locket was saying before Kreacher closed it?” Remus asks. His skin looks wrinkled and paper-thin, exposing the distinct dark circles under his eyes. 

Sirius shakes his head. 

Remus speaks slowly as he tries to remember the words exactly. “It said, ‘the Dursleys only treated you as they should… and soon Remus and Sirius will learn the truth, too, and treat you the same.’”

Sirius stares back at Remus, shocked and disturbed. It can’t be- but even as he thinks that, his mind is racing, gathering evidence. The ragged, oversized clothing Harry wore- Sirius assumed his parents were poor, or the ripped jeans fashion had been extended to shirts and shoes. Even the way Harry always came to visit him seemed suspect now- what teenager spends all their free time alone with a stray dog? 

“When I woke him up Tuesday morning, he flinched away from me,” Remus says. “I thought it was just the lingering effects of some sort of nightmare. And when I bought him lunch, he looked almost… almost painfully grateful. Like no one had ever done that for him. And the way he always tries to pay his share, even though we’re the adults…” 

Sirius shakes his head angrily. “We need to talk to him-” 

“No,” Remus tells him seriously. “Think about how you reacted when we tried to talk to _you_ about _your_ family. Right now, we need to establish trust with him- and later, once we’ve gotten out of here, we can talk to Dumbledore.” 

“If Dumbledore would help, I could get a proper trial, and then...” custody. The word hangs, unspoken, in the air. At the thought, Sirius’ stomach twists painfully. He loves Harry- but he hardly knows him. He spent the last decade in Azkaban. Even before Azkaban, he was hardly the sort of person you’d want to raise a child- too irresponsible, too immature, too impulsive. After all, he left Harry to go exact his revenge on the rat, hadn’t he? And it’s not like Sirius had any proper role models- what if he parents just a badly as _his_ family? 

“We don’t need to think about it now,” Remus says soothingly. “For now, let’s just focus on getting out of here.” 

**17\. split second w/o gravity**

Harry stares at his reflection in the dirty mirror, lost in thought. 

What happens after this? So far, he’s been so consumed with the effort of trying to survive that he hasn’t really thought what will happen if he _does_ survive. He’s a squib, so he can’t go to Hogwarts. He’s known Remus and Sirius for what, a week? So Harry supposes it’ll be back to the Dursleys for him. 

Back to the endless drudgery of chores and work and school, except now without even Snuffles to break the monotony. Back to the people who would _never_ buy him a burger, or give him their favorite leather jacket, or cook him a meal. 

Suddenly, Harry doesn’t really mind being trapped in Grimmauld Place all that much. 

A rapping on the door breaks him from his thoughts. “Harry?” Remus asks. Harry stiffens and prepares himself for awkward questions, but Remus merely says, “Lunch is ready.” Harry can hear him descend the stairs. Harry takes a moment to gather himself, then follows. 

“Afternoon, Harry.” Sirius’ eyes look slightly red- Harry assumes because of the revelation about his brother. He scoots over on the sofa, like he wants Harry to sit next to him. Harry swallows his surprise and sits down beside him.

“We figured we should let you know- the full moon is on Saturday night. We had been hoping we would be out of here by then, but at this point, that’s not looking too likely.” Sirius spears a bilberry with his fork. “Don’t worry, Remus will be securely contained. I’ll be there too, in dog form, to help keep him calm.” 

Harry nods. 

“It’s protecting you from Death Eaters I’m more worried about, actually,” Sirius says slowly. “Especially now that you’re out of hairspray. Do you think we’ll be able to substitute alcohol for hairspray?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Hairspray is pressurized.” 

“There may be a spell to pressurize liquids,” Remus points out. 

“Yeah, but hairspray isn’t made of liquor, anyway. It’s aerosol and things.” Harry slowly chews a bit of salmon. “Maybe… maybe I could just use the alcohol, straight up.” His mind suddenly flashes to the war documentary that Uncle Vernon used to watch religiously. “I could make them into molotov cocktails.” 

“What?” Sirius asks. 

Harry quickly explains the concept. “I’m not sure exactly how to make one, though.” He sits, lost in thought.

“What I’m worried about is the locket,” Remus says. “I don’t like how strong that compulsion was.” 

Harry and Sirius nod.

“We could bind it,” Sirius says, “but that would only really prevent Harry from using it, since it’s not too hard to undo your own spell.”

“The only one who seemed to be able to resist it was Kreacher,” Harry says. “Maybe he can be the one to bind it.” 

“Good idea,” Remus says, making Harry flush with pride. 

“I’ll go ask him about it right now.” A slight smile still lingers on Harry’s lips as he leaves, and there’s a bounce to his step that wasn’t there before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My FBI agent has probably put me on some sort of watch list at this point. 
> 
> One more chapter and then back to the regular schedule!


	18. kablooey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fire hits the fan.

**18\. kablooey**

Harry spends most of Friday trying to figure out the molotov cocktail. When he explains his issues with it during lunch, Remus reassures him. 

“You should definitely try to figure this out, because it’s important you know how to defend yourself,” He tells Harry, “But at the same time, don’t beat yourself up over it. Think about all you’ve accomplished. You’ve escaped Voldemort, taken out a Death Eater, and evaded capture for a full week. All at age fifteen. _I_ think that’s pretty impressive.” 

“As do I,” Sirius pipes up. 

“Thanks,” Harry replies, blushing. Later that afternoon, he has a breakthrough and by that evening, has turned all of the remaining alcohol in the house into molotov cocktails. 

He sleeps easier that night. Knowing the locket in his backpack is locked in a box he can’t open, and that he’s got a couple of molotov cocktails within arm’s reach, makes the locket and the Death Eater patrols much less terrifying. 

The night after that, he sleeps much worse. First of all, he has trouble getting to sleep, knowing that Remus is going to undergo a painful and dangerous transformation. The whole situation worries him so much he decides to sleep in his clothes (shoes and all) just in case they need help. Secondly, he gets a rude awakening.

Harry bursts awake at the tingles exploding on his tongue. Through a haze of sleep and gloom, a vague, too-tall outline prowls toward him. Harry stares, frozen. 

Snuffles’ growling breaks him out of his trance. The outline flinches away and suddenly leaps out the window, breaking the glass with such force Harry can feel his ears pop. Snuffles follows after. 

In the moment’s silence, Harry can taste the storm on his tongue. The wards are down. The Death Eaters are coming. He pulls his backpack over one shoulder, scoops up the molotov cocktails next to him, and races out of the room. 

He hurries into the kitchen before without really thinking about it, and by the time he realizes it’s a dead end, he can hear voices in the house. He starts digging around frantically for his lighter. 

“Magicae invenire,” a lilting voice intonates uncomfortably close. There’s a moment of quiet, and then the same voice says, with a note of disappointment, “He must have fled.” 

“Perhaps he is in one of the upper rooms,” a smooth voice suggests. 

“My spell would have detected him, then,” the first voice sniffs. 

“Let us check, to be certain,” the smooth voice says diplomatically. 

Heavy treads sound on the stairs. Harry’s hand closes around the cool metal of the lighter. 

“He’s not in any of the rooms off the first landing,” a second voice reports. Harry brings the little flame to the wick. Then, in one smooth motion, he shoves open the door with his shoulder and throws the molotov cocktail at the stairs as hard he can. He can see a spray of fire and glass out of the corner of his eyes but he sprints without lingering to watch. 

Harry climbs the garden bench like it’s a set of stairs and vaults over the fence. His hands are busy with the molotov cocktails he’s still holding, so he lands awkwardly, his ankles jolting painfully. He gets up and keeps going.

In the gloom of the night, it’s difficult to open a latch, especially with hands full. Harry stuffs one molotov cocktail into the pocket that held his lighter then zips it back up. With a hand now free, he manages to get it open, and then he’s off again. 

Harry sprints down the empty street as fast as his legs can carry him. His ears are straining, trying to hear past the sound of wind brushing past for any Death Eaters in pursuit. 

A stitch is rapidly gathering in his side. Harry turns onto a sidestreet and slows slightly. He can’t run forever. Where should he go? Diagon Alley, he realizes. It’s a couple of miles south from Grimmauld, he knows. But without any sort of sun, he can’t tell which way’s south. 

He’s trying to remember where the sunlight came from back at Grimmauld when his nose starts to tingle, and a hint of storm-smell touches his tongue. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, but the stitch in his side is so bad even adrenaline can’t speed him up much. Just as he almost gives up hope, he spots an entrance to the tube. He bounds down the stairs, backpack slamming into his back with every step. 

“Southbound train leaving now,” an automated message plays. Harry forces himself not to let his pace slow. He leaps aboard the train just before the doors close. Just as he does so, three Death Eaters dash into the station. 

A bolt of sickly yellow light shatters the window just in front of Harry. Harry ducks automatically, covering his head with his arm 

“Diffindo!” Harry winces as the spell cuts deeply into his hand. 

“Dispero man-” The train accelerates abruptly, and the last spell hits the far wall instead of Harry.

Harry slowly lowers his arm, looking around cautiously. No one is really in a position to care about their newest, weirdest passenger. The only other passengers are a woman in black scrubs snoring a few rows down, and a clump of very drunk twenty somethings. 

Harry slowly sits down on one of the seats, his lighter and molotov cocktail still clutched in his right hand. Blood is pouring out of the cut on his left hand. He reluctantly lets go out of the lighter and molotov cocktail to dig through his backpack for the strips of cloth he made out of Dudley’s shirt. It’s impossible to bind his left hand while only using his right hand, so he presses the strips against the cut instead.

The cutting curse that cut his left hand also cut into the wrist of the leather jacket Sirius gave him, Harry realizes guiltily. He runs one of the fingers of his good hand over the soft, worn leather. Are Sirius and Remus alright? If they are, will they think to go to Diagon Alley? For that matter, will Harry be able to reach Diagon Alley? Sure, Harry knows it’s a few miles south, but with the darkness of the tunnel, there’s no way to tell how fast they’re moving. What if Harry passes Diagon Alley without even realizing it? 

That smell he so dreads is rising in his throat. Harry lifts his head and sees a blob of white in the darkness of the tunnel, keeping pace with the train. An unearthly screeching slices through the air. The train lurches, sparks flying past the windows. Suddenly the train slams to a halt, and Harry is thrown forward. Alcohol soaks his jeans and shirt. Broken glass digs into the exposed skin where his shirt rode up. His ears ring. 

“Hey kid, you good?” A voice slurs. Harry allows the drunk guy to haul him to his feet and is about to reply when a sibilant hiss interrupts him. 

“Harry Potter…” Harry knows who it is. The words echo all around him, seeming to come from all directions. 

“Come out and face your fate, and the lives of the muggles on this train may be spared.” 

“Do you know who that is?” The woman in scrubs asks, face pale and bloodless. “What’s going on?”

Harry grabs his lighter from where it lays in a puddle of alcohol on the floor. 

“Hey, kid,” The woman in scrubs says. “Are you Harry Potter? Whatever it is that’s going on, don’t-” Harry unzips one of the pockets of his backpack and pulls out the remaining molotov cocktail. The woman’s eyes widen, and she falls silent.

Harry’s going to die either way, he knows. But these passengers might not have to. “You and the other passengers need to go back the way the train came from,” Harry tells her. He pulls his backpack on and straightens Sirius’ jacket, then steps out of the train car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you guys next week! :)


	19. deflagration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tries his best. His best isn't enough.

**19\. deflagration**

Harry planned to throw the molotov cocktail first thing, but the sight of the Dark Lord stops him short.

“Harry Potter… at long last.” Harry swallows reflexively, his mouth so dry that nothing goes down. “Come forward, Harry Potter. Enter our circle.” 

Harry stumbles forward. The circle of Death Eaters part before him, then close again behind him. 

“Look at him,” the icy voice breathes. “He does not even known why he is here. Tell me, Potter, who am I?” 

Harry’s scar tingles. He shrugs. 

The circle bursts into cackling laughter, though with a gesture, they quickly fall silent. 

“See how Dumbledore’s attempts at protection cripple him! See how weak and foolish the supposed savior of the wizarding world is!” The circle laughs at the gloating words.

“Well, Potter, I suppose I will have to give you a brief history lesson. I am Lord Voldemort, and you are the boy meant to be my downfall.” A few Death Eaters start laughing again, but fall silent at a look. 

“On Samhain, 1981, I entered the house of your parents intending to kill you and your family.” It’s disturbing how lightly and easily he says it. “Your father died easily, with hardly a thought on my part. Your mother, however, died in the foolish attempt to save you- and unwittingly gave you a measure of protection which Dumbledore soon exploited… if you lived within a house of those of your mother’s blood, you would protected from me.” 

“Of course, with the help of my faithful servant Wormtail, that protection is now meaningless.” Those pale inhuman lips move, but it’s not really a smile. “Back to the history lesson, however… I admit I miscalculated- for your mother’s protection caused my curse to rebound off of you, young Potter, and onto myself…”

Now he’s talking about life as a ghost, but Harry isn’t paying attention, because something has just struck him with all the force of one of Aunt Petunia’s frying pans to the head. The the locket is still within his backpack. If he dies, Kreacher and Regulus’ work will be useless. He has to think of a way out of here. 

“And then, four years ago, an opportunity presented itself…” 

He’ll use the molotov cocktail as a distraction, and then run. The shattered remains of the train behind him can serve as cover. He can only hope he’ll be able to run far enough and fast enough.

“But my plan failed… the Stone, it turned out, was a fake… a trap, to lure me forward… I was banished from my body once again…” 

How to deal with the Death Eaters behind him? He has only one molotov cocktail remaining… 

“...Wormtail, fleeing justice after the Weasley children discovered their pet rat was not really a rat…” The Death Eaters break into laughter once more. 

He can only deal with one or the other, he realizes. And the Death Eaters are much more likely to be scared by a bit of fire and glass. Before he can lose his nerve, he turns and throws down the molotov cocktail with all the force he can gather. 

He only has the chance to take about five steps when something slams into his legs, and he can feel them click together, stiffen. He instinctively tries to hold his hands out, but they snap to his sides, and his nose hits the ground first, breaks under the pressure, glasses shattering. It’s sheer dumb luck he doesn’t get any glass shards in his eyes.

Magic twirls him around. The Dark Lord is saying something, but Harry feels like he’s underwater. Unable to hear, the pain takes him by surprise. 

And what pain it is. Pain that makes him want to arch his back, scream and scream and scream, but he can’t, and that makes it so much worse. Tears pour out of his eyes and down his frozen face. 

Harry blurrily watches the Dark Lord say something else, his mouth twisted in a taunting smirk, and then it’s back to the pain again. 

The Dark Lord stops. He’s saying something else now. Harry strains his ears. “...sufficiently punished, let us duel properly. Get up, Harry Potter!” 

A wave of bliss washes over him. He’s never felt so good in his life. It’s like lying on a warm, cozy bed, smothered in soft, silky blankets. Get up, a voice says. All you will have to do is get up, and this will go on forever. It feels wrong. Harry’s never slept in a proper bed, let alone one so soft and silky. Get up, the voice insists. Aunt Petunia’s going to be so angry he slept on one of their beds. He shakes his head. Abruptly, the bliss is gone, and he can once again feel all the old aches- the pain still echoing through his bones, the cut on his hand, the glass in his skin, his broken nose. 

“Give him a bit of help, Severus,” Harry hears the Dark Lord say as if on the other side of a very long tunnel. “So disappointing… I suppose I did have a bit too much fun with you.” 

A Death Eater in a gleaming mask is approaching him now; he’s holding a flask between long pale fingers like a pianist’s. 

“Open your mouth, Potter.” Harry gives his head as much of a shake as he can manage. The pianist’s fingers reach and pinch his nostrils shut. Harry stubbornly holds his breath, having decided he’d rather pass out than take anything a Death Eater would like him to drink. 

The Death Eater pinches Harry in the cheek so hard that his mouth opens slightly. Quick as a flash, the Death Eater pours the contents of the flask down his throat. Strangely, it’s cool and pleasant on the way down- and Harry can instantly feel himself become a bit more alert, a bit stronger. The Death Eater roughly pulls him to his feet, and then returns to his place in the circle. 

“I suppose you don’t know how to duel, either,” The Dark Lord smirks. “Well, let us have another quick lesson: begin with a bow!” A weight like a lump of iron presses on his spine, forcing him to bend. 

“And now, draw your wand.” Harry stands motionless. Another wave of bliss hits him. _Draw your wand,_ it says. 

“I don’t have one,” Harry replies. The bliss is abruptly gone. The Death Eaters are laughing uproariously again. 

“Oh dear,” The Dark Lord mocks, tutting in exaggerated exasperation. “Be sure to bring your supplies to class next time. I suppose we’ll have to begin our little lesson doing without. _Crucio!_ ”

Another wave of pain consumes Harry- but at least this time, he can scream. 

The pain ends. “Perhaps that’s not fair,” the Dark Lord muses. “Perhaps we should go both do things the muggle way.” With a flourish, he tucks his wand up his sleeve- and draws out a long, gleaming knife. The Death Eaters around cackle like jackals, mad with bloodlust. Harry has never been so terrified in his life.

The Dark Lord slowly walks forward, then kneels next to where Harry lays on the ground. As he kneels, so do the Death Eaters, as if they can’t bear to be any farther from the action then they have to be. 

The Dark Lord is holding the knife near his face when the Death Eater from earlier speaks up. 

“My lord, hostiles are approaching.” 

“Any last words?” The Dark Lord asks Harry menacingly. Harry inclines his head in a nod. He clears his throat- he can taste blood when he swallows- and says, as loudly as he can manage, “ _Fuck you._ ”

The Dark Lord’s face twists with rage, and he buries the knife in Harry’s stomach, hilt-deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy!


	20. countermeasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wakes up in an unfamiliar place and, panicked, flees.

**20\. countermeasures**

There is a bubblegum-and-tingles presence above him. Fingers try to touch him, and he flinches violently away. There’s a voice speaking, but he can’t hear what it’s saying. Sleep sweeps him away. 

Harry wakes up cocooned in something blissfully warm and silken. He tastes tingles on his tongue. _Shit._ He shoves himself to his feet. Through his blurry vision, he spots his backpack sitting nearby. As he grabs it, he hears a door starting to creak open. He limps away, stumbling out another nearby door.

His stomach is oddly numb, which is a relief, but walking still isn’t easy by any means. Harry worries that if he jolts his wound, the blessed stiffness will be quickly replaced with pain. Also, Harry is still so exhausted his surroundings hardly feel real. There’s a terrible impulse to lean back on the wall for just a moment, which he knows would at once turn into much longer than a moment. Harry closes his eyes while he walks as a compromise. 

“Hungry… thirsssty…” a loud, hissing voice says. There’s an odd muffled scraping noise. Harry opens his eyes, but there’s nothing. 

He hears it again. “Hungry… thirsssty… Ssso hungry...” 

“Do you think you could help me?” Harry hisses softly back. “I need sssomewhere to hide.” 

The scraping noise abruptly stops. “A Ssspeaker? Follow me, I will ssshow you how to enter my den.” 

Normally, Harry would hesitate to enter a girls’ bathroom, even one with a large OUT OF ORDER sign on it, but now, he doesn’t even blink. Harry has to do a bit of careful maneuvering to get the heavy door open without putting stress on his stomach wound, but he manages it. 

As soon as he steps inside, Harry can see why there’s an OUT OF ORDER sign on the door. The mirrors are cracked and spotted, and the paint on the wooden doors just barely clinging on. No matter how carefully Harry steps, his bare feet always end up in the puddles on the floor. He tries not to think what they’re made up of. 

“How do I get into your den?” Harry asks. 

“Find the sssymbol of the sssnake,” the voice replies. It sounds less muffled now.

On instinct, Harry takes a deep, slow breath. There are low level tingles and smells everywhere, but they’re especially strong in the back corner. He carefully inspects the corner, then the sink in that corner. He’s starting to wonder if maybe taking the voice’s offer was a mistake when he finds the little snake scratched into the side of the tap. 

“What next?” Harry asks the voice, but even as he says it, the knobs for hot and cold water, along with the faucet handle, begin to grind in a slow, circular turn. Then, the sink slides away, revealing a huge pipe, which is as big around as Dudley’s extra-large bean bag chair.

A sudden wave of water soaks him through as a silvery girl shoots up out of one of the toilets. For a moment, they just stare at each other, both with mouths wide open, and then the see through girl is off like a bullet, shooting right through the door. 

Harry lets out a slow breath. It’s alright. Just means he should be extra quick in getting out of here. He looks at the hole, and swallows roughly. He shoves aside his racing thoughts and slowly sits in the hole, and then, ignoring the rapid pounding of his heart, forces his fingers to let go.

His backpack protects him from the worst of the slime, but not from hitting the walls on the curves. Each time he feels a dull pulse of pain in his stomach wound. Suddenly, the pipe levels out and he is thrown through damp air onto a damp, stony floor. He groans. The papery robe he’s got on do nothing to protect him. 

“Ssspeaker!” The voice calls out in delight, and the huge scraping sound is right by him now. Harry opens his eyes, but it’s so pitch black it doesn’t make any sort of difference. 

“Thank you for having me in your h- den,” Harry says, parroting common suburban etiquette.

“Of courssse!” the voice says, disconcertingly cheerful. “I will alwaysss aid a ssspeaker in need! Tell me, why do you need to hide?”

“I am being hunted by the Dark Lord,” Harry replies.

“The Dark Lord,” the voice hisses slowly, thoughtfully. “I believe I may know thisss Dark Lord… tell me, how doesss he sssmell?”

Harry digs through his backpack in the dark and pulls out of the locket, holding it carefully so as little of his skin touches it as possible. “Like thisss.” 

There’s a strange, terrifying moment as a great presence approaches him. He can feel the airwaves moving as something huge carefully sniffs the locket. Harry’s hand shakes. 

“Cccertainly the sssame Dark Lord,” The voice says at last. “He came to me wearing a Hogwarts ssstudent asss a ssshell, but wissshed for the great kings of sssnakesss, the basssilisssk, as a ssshell, asss well. You are wissse to avoid him.” 

“Basssilisssk?” Harry asks slowly.

“Oh yesss,” The voice replies languidly, “Little Ssspeaker, I am the great basssilisssk of Hogwartsss. My venom isss more potent than that of any krait or cobra… no, there are none today whossse venom even comesss clossse to my own. I ssstrike a dozen times fasster than the fassstest death adder, and my fangs are so sharp they kill with hardly a touch. Like the regal Medussa, my eyes bring inssstant death to all who look within them.”

Harry is frozen, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. 

“I can sssmell your fear, Ssspeaker,” the basilisk says. “Do not fear. I am alssso as wissse as the great Medusssa, asss kind as any lamai, and asss clever as the cleveressst zmei. I am the great protector of Hogwartsss. I would never intentionally harm a ssstudent. My eyesss are closssed.” 

Harry takes a few deep breaths, slowly calming down. Once he feels a bit better something occurs to him.

“Do you think you could dessstroy this locket?” Harry asks slowly. “It is ssso ssstrong that nothing can slice it, and no poissson can kill it. But perhapsss you…” 

The basilisk makes a thoughtful noise. “Doubtlessssly my fang and venom could injure it… but it isss your prey to kill. I will allow you to use an old fang of mine.” 

There’s a slithering, scraping sound, and then, after a long moment, something clatters to the ground in front of Harry. 

“Thanksss,” Harry says. He leans down and slowly feels along the floor, until his hand closes around what has to be the fang. 

He carefully puts the locket on the ground and positions the fang over it. He takes a long, deep breath, then says, “Open.” 

He hears the locket open and instinctively stabs downwards. There’s a low, angry cry of pain, and Harry can hear the entire locket shaking. Harry holds the side he’s already stabbed down with one hand, and plunges the fang into the other eye. This time the thing within the locket outright screams, a high, feral thing that sends goosebumps and tingles running all across his skin. Then the locket is quiet, and empty, and there are no tingles left. 

Harry kneels, panting. His hands are shaking, and he feels light headed, and he’s so tired. He can feel something warm and wet soaking through the papery-thin robe- he must have reopened the wound in his stomach. 

“There are othersss approaching,” the basilisk tells him. “They will not harm you, but they may harm me. I will depart. Visssit again sssoon, and I will teach you how to kill the ressst of your prey.” 

There’s the familiar slithering, scraping noise, and then the basilisk’s gone.

Harry picks up the broken locket and the fang and waits. He can hear someone bouncing around through the tunnel, and then sense them flying through the air. They land just a little bit beyond him. 

That happens several more times. After each one lands, Harry considers speaking up, but what if the basilisk was mistaken, and these are Death Eaters? He’s got nothing to protect himself with- and what harm will waiting a bit do? 

“Check your blindfolds, everyone,” A deep, smooth voice says. “Still got them on?” 

There’s a chorus of affirmatives, and the deep, smooth voice starts speaking again. It seems to Harry like it’s coming from underwater. Abruptly, everything is very distant. Some far away part of him recognizes that this is probably a very bad thing. He should really speak up now. He opens his mouth. “H-” his voice cracks and gives out. No one seems to have heard him. 

He thinks a moment, then taps the locket on the floor three times.

“What was that?” A panicked female voice asks. 

Harry taps the locket on the ground three more times, this time slower and lighter. 

“Lumos,” a voice says, and suddenly Harry is wincing back, blinded by the brilliant light. 

“Harry Potter,” the voice gasps. There’s a moment of shocked silence, and then someone says, “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! I'm planning to upload another shorter sort of extra chapter halfway through this week, so keep your eyes out for that.


	21. shock wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of background of what's going on with everyone else.

**21a. shock wave i**

Tonks’ fingers shake with excess adrenaline. She tries to focus on finding Harry, but she keeps on remembering that was _motherfucking Voldemort_ , Voldemort is _fucking back_ and Harry Potter got _fucking stabbed_.

“Where is Harry?” Dumbledore asks. 

“Magicae invenire,” Kingsley says. Nothing happens. Tonks swallows hard. After a wizard’s death, their core fades away, like embers turning to ash. 

“Harry was alive only a short time ago,” Dumbledore reassures them. “Voldemort-” he ignores their flinches, “-must have veiled his core from view.” 

The group quickly splits to look up for him. Tonks decides to look by the shattered husk of the muggle vehicle, mostly because no one else is over there, which means no one will see how badly this is effecting her. 

She lights up the tip of her wand with a Lumos. It takes her a moment to spot the brownish shoe-sole just visible under the lip of the train. She squats down. In the dim light, she can only take in bits of him- shirt that’s white at the top but soaked with blood at the bottom, the stark angles of his face, one of his hands somehow still loosely tangled around the strap of a backpack. She brings the light in closer- and he flinches so violently away that Tonks winces in sympathy, just imagining how that would make his stab wound feel. She whispers a quiet sleep spell, and watches the tension in his face melt away. 

Tonks carefully lifts him out, being careful to get his backpack, as well. He’s worryingly light, and Tonks can feel some of his bones digging into her as she carries him. She can see Dumbledore’s face crumple slightly at the sight of him, and there’s an audible gasp from the other Order members. 

Soon, Madam Pomfrey is rushing him off to the hospital wing, and Dumbledore is hurrying to his office, probably to notify wizarding Britain of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s return. Tonks decides to attempt a nap. 

**21b. Shock wave ii**

Harry Potter’s list of ailments is long. An accumulated _seven minutes_ under the Cruciatus Curse, a stab wound from an enchanted knife, a cutting curse to the hand, a recently broken nose, glass embedded in some of his skin. All recent. 

That’s not all, however. Chronic malnourishment, teeth which look like they’ve never seen a healer, a dog’s bite scar on his left leg, minor brain damage from some sort of blunt force trauma, and a fractured pinkie that never got set. None of these ones recent. 

Madam Pomfrey heads to her office to look through her files and see if she can find out who Harry’s been staying with all these years. She’s just pulled out the file when her wards inform her Harry has woken up. Realizing he’s likely rather disoriented, she hurries to enter the room and explain, but the door sticks, and by the time she gets it open, he’s gone. 

**21c. Shock wave iii**

Ginny used to daydream of meeting Harry Potter on the train into Hogwarts. Being friends with an older boy, especially the _Boy-Who-Lived_ , would be the ultimate perfect start to her first year at school. 

Ginny ended up friends with an older boy, but it was nothing like she used to daydream about. He was a charming thing, with ink black hair and paper pale skin. He scuttled spider like into her mind and fed on her soul until he was fat and strong. Harry wasn’t there to save her, wasn’t there to defeat the monsters that stalked Hogwarts’ halls and Ginny’s head. Instead, Ginny broke her ankle in one of the black stretches of times when the spider was in control. Percy noticed, Madam Pomfrey gave her an extra-thorough check up, and the diary was confiscated. Confiscated, but not destroyed. The villain wasn’t truly defeated, and no one rode into the sunset.

Daydreaming over Harry Potter rather lost its luster after that. Ginny was too busy learning silencing charms so that she wouldn’t wake up the other girls, and trying to forget. Trying to forget that the spider-book was still out there. Trying to forget that the basilisk still lived, even if it was now trapped within the walls. Trying to forget, too, the truth. That she still understands the whispers in the walls. 

Even with all of these other things distracting her, Ginny can’t ignore Harry Potter. At least not after the evening of Friday, the fourteenth of July. Because the wards fall, and everyone knows it’s Sirius Black, finishing the job off. The entire wizarding world searches, hoping to find him before Black does, but day after day passes and no one find him anywhere. Hope wanes. _He’s dead_ , Ginny thinks, eyes burning slightly but no tears falling. The first thing the spider ate was her optimism.

Then Dumbledore bursts into the Burrow saying they’ve rescued Harry, but he’s in the Chamber of Secrets, and he’s injured. They’ve found the entrance, all Ginny needs to do is open it up. He says it like he’s asking her to pay the owl, or something. Ginny gapes at him for a second, feeling like she’s been cracked wide open for all to see, but then she yanks herself back together and tucks _how the_ fuck _does Dumbledore know-_ into Things She Won’t Think About Right Now and steps through the flames. 

And that’s how she’s ended up sitting in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, trying to control her breathing and hoping to Merlin that Harry Potter isn’t dead. 

Suddenly a silvery phoenix flies up through the sink. “ _We have found Harry Potter_ ,” it says with Dumbledore’s voice. “ _Please open up the exit._ ”

Ginny closes her eyes for an instant in sheer relief. He’s not the fictionalized hero she once adored, but rather one more person that the spider _doesn’t get to eat_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not be able to upload chapter 22 until Sunday, since I've got a lot going on over the next few days.


	22. components of combustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tables turn.

**22\. components of combustion**

There’s a loud cracking noise, and the air _splits_. 

There are three people who were not here before.

One is a handsome adult with keen gray eyes, and shiny, shoulder length black hair. He’s got a confident posture to him, and a leather jacket is stretched across his broad chest. 

The second is a slightly worn looking man, with fading scars on his face. His eyes are warm and kind. Something about the way he stands suggests quiet, hard won assurance. 

Before the other two is a younger man, looking to be about seventeen or eighteen. He’s a bit lanky, but has a sort of lithe muscle to him, and isn’t unhealthily skinny. His green eyes are bright behind his gold glasses. He wears skinny jeans, and a worn leather jacket. Although it was too big for him when he first got it, it fits him well now. 

Harry Potter-Black has returned to Little Hangleton graveyard.

Sirius and Remus draw their wands, and Harry’s hand falls to the basilisk fang sheathed at his waist. The graveyard is quiet and empty, however. After a moment, Harry steps forward, the soles of his well cared for Converse pressing down the soft grass. 

His hand closes around a bit of plastic. Bleached and misshapen by sun and time, but still recognizable. His basketball. 

After a moment, Harry throws it aside. He’s got another at home, one without a leak. 

“Let’s go kill a horcrux.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of trouble with writing this, for a variety of reasons. Partially finals (which start Monday, I should probably be studying) but also because I just wasn't sure what to do with it. I was trying to write Harry interacting with Dumbledore, healing at Hogwarts, and it just wasn't working. That's not what about this story's been about. This story's about squib!Harry fighting Death Eaters with improvised weapons. I'm sorry if you wanted to read about sassy foul-mouthed squib Harry learning about the magical world, but I couldn't write that. That being said, if anyone DOES want to write that, I would absolutely delighted! I just can't write it myself, if that makes sense?
> 
> That being said, I do have some general ideas of what happens now that Harry's been rescued. Sirius' innocence is proven, the Dursleys burn in hellfire, and Harry is adopted by Remus and Sirius. I'm not sure whether or not Harry ends up at Hogwarts. I do know that he and the basilisk become great friends, and together with Remus and Sirius, Harry hunts down the horcruxes and eventually defeats Voldemort.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this fic. This is normally the part where I would say something about how I didn't expect people to like this, but the truth is, I wrote this because I really wanted to read it, and for some strange reason no one else had done it? Like all of the squib!Harry Potter fics are angst or ooooo he's not REALLY a squib, and I don't get it. Every time I read a fic where for some reason Harry can't use his magic for a while, or he pretends to be a squib, I frown at the screen and whisper sadly, "make him a squib you coward".
> 
> Anyway, sorry about that. I hope you enjoyed reading this. Write Badass Squibs 2k19.


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